I was now in a vehicle of some sort — I have no impression of a horse, but I was more conscious than before of my companion. There was a vague feeling of hurry — we had to be at a certain place by a certain time. The road was broad and curving, with a hill-side upon the left with some ancient ruins built right into it. At the top of the hill we stopped. A wonderful panorama of a city lay before me. It was built upon low hills and it undulated away to the horizon. The sky and atmosphere were grey, but not more so than London on a winter day. I have never seen so great a city. High buildings and towers stretched as far as I could see, but I saw no spires. Then all faded away, and I awoke.
It was a very intense experience and I give the explanation which I received next day from psychic sources for what the reader may think it is worth. It came in reply to questions.
“It was a probationary city. Those pictures were instructive to people in that stage. You did not see your guide because it would have taken from the power. The power was running low, so we had to hurry in the end. You were taken to a grey city because that side of spirit life has always excited your sympathy and curiosity.”
Such was my most vivid nocturnal experience.
Dreaming true is the only psychic power which I have hitherto developed outside healing. Before we went to Australia I got the name “Naldern” imprinted on my mind in sleep and wrote it down on waking. We sailed in the “Naldera,” though we had intended another ship and had never consciously heard of the former. Again, I have put it on record before the event how I dreamed that the Piave would be the turning-point of the War, many months before the Italians were driven back sixty miles to that position, where they won their decisive victory. In literature I have had little help from dreams. Once I woke with a line ringing in my head. It was, “She walked alone on the Hills of Fate.” I wrote a poem called “Victrix” round it, and it marks my highest point, perhaps, on the foothills of Parnassus.
I may conclude these notes by stating my opinion as to the exact nature of dreams, as I have already done in my New Revelation. There seem to me to be two forms, and only two: one, the experiences of the released spirit, and the other, the confused action of the lower faculties which remain in the body when the spirit is absent. The former is rare and beautiful, but the memory of it fails us. The latter is common and varied, but usually fantastic or ignoble. By noting what is absent in the lower dreams one can tell what the missing qualities are, and so judge what part of us goes to make up the spirit. Thus in these dreams humour is wanting, since we see things which strike us afterwards as ludicrous, and are not amused. The sense of proportion and of judgment are all gone. In short, the higher is palpably gone, and the lower, the sense of fear, of sensual impression, of self-preservation, are functioning all the more vividly because they are relieved from the higher control.
IV
THE GHOST OF THE MOAT
If anyone craves for adventure, he will find it in psychic work. I have myself encountered many incidents in actual fact which I could hardly beat if I gave free play to my imagination.
Some mention of Dr. and Mrs. Wickland of Los Angeles have occasionally found their way into the Press. He is a deep student of psychic phenomena believing, as I do myself, that a great deal of mania and crime is due to direct obsession, and that a recognition of the fact would be the first necessary step for dealing with it.
She is a medium who is very sensitive to spirit presences, and is ready, with great bravery, to allow them to control her so long as she thinks a good purpose can be served. She is, in my opinion, one of the heroines of the world. Such were the couple, gentle, elderly folk, who drove out with us to see something of rural Sussex.
I took them to the old moated grange of Groombridge, which is mentioned by Evelyn in his Diary. As we stood looking at the lichened brick walls, a door which gave upon the deep moat opened and a woman looked out. Then it closed again. We passed on, and I thought no more of the matter.
As we walked through the meadow which led to the high road Mrs. Wickland kept glancing back. Presently she said:
“There is such a strange old man walking beside us.”
“What is he like?”
“He is old. His face is sunk forward. His back is hunched. He is earth-bound.”
“How is he dressed?”
“He has knee-breeches, a striped vest, and quite a short coat.”
“Whence did he come?”
“He came through that door that opened.”
“Then how did he cross the moat?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know what he wants, but he is at our heels.”
I took my guests to the old Crown Inn in the village, where we had tea. Mrs. Wickland kept glancing at a chair in the corner beside her.
“He is there.” Presently she began to laugh.
“I did not in the least want that second cup of tea, and the extra slice,” she said, “but he was close to me, and would have taken possession and helped himself if I had not done so.”
We had driven home, and were seated among the roses on my veranda, the Wicklands, my wife, and myself. We were talking of other things when the Seer suddenly gave a start.
“He’s here.”
Then came the amazing moment. Before our eyes she changed in an instant into a heavy-faced, sullen old man, with bent back and loose, senile lips. The whole expression was utterly different. She choked and spluttered in an effort to express the thoughts of the control.
Dr. Wickland, with the quiet assurance of long practice, massaged the throat.
“All right, friend, give yourself time.”
The new-comer shook off his hand angrily.
“Leave me alone. What do you want to touch me for?” he croaked.
From that time the dialogue was as follows, sometimes one and sometimes another asking the questions, and with ocasional gaspings and chokings as interruption.
“Who are you?”
“I am from Groombridge. My name? Well, I don’t feel clear in my mind. Yes, yes, I remember. It is David. And Fletcher. That is it, David Fletcher. Yes, I have been in service there. Horses. Yes, it was the horses I looked to. What year is it? I don’t know. My mind ain’t clear. Is it 1808 or is it 1809? What d’ye say, 1927? Well, well, that’s a good ‘un.”
“Dead, why, I am here talkin’ to you. How can I be dead? I’d be with God if I was dead.” (Suddenly started.) “Look at my hand? Why there are rings on it. They look like my lady’s rings. No, I don’t know how they came to be there.”
“I don’t understand a lot of things. I don’t know who them folk are in the house. They have no call to be there. Me and the others try to put them out.” (“The others,” Dr. Wickland explained, “were probably other earth-bound spirits in the old house.”)
“Yes, master was a good master, but he died, and the others came in. The house was sold. We wasn’t well treated after that. What could I do? No, I couldn’t go away. Where was I to go out in the wide world, and me with a hump on my back? I belonged to the house. I had to do the best I could.”
“What have I done? I don’t rightly understand it. I’ve slept always in the same old corner. It seems a long, long time.”
“Now tell us, David, don’t you remember being very ill?”
“Me ill? No, I was never ill. But I’ll tell you what happened. He pushed me into the water.”
“Into the moat?”
“Yes, into the water.”
“Who was he?”
“It was Sam.” (Many chuckles.) “But I held on to him, I did. He came in the water, too.” (Dr. Wickland remarked that the man was probably drowned on that occasion.)
“Is there no one who loved you among the dead? Was your mother dead?”
“Mother was dead. No one ever loved me, except mother. She loved me, mother did. No one could love me, because I looked queer. They laughed.” (He burst into noisy sobbing.) “Mother loved me. Nobody else. They said it wasn’t right that I wait upon the ladies, and me with a h
ump.”
“Cheer up, David; we will soon get the hump off you. How came you to follow us?”
“I don’t know. I think I was told. Then I got bread and tea. I have not had tea since I can remember. I would like more. I am always hungry. But what was that wagon? That was the devil’s wagon, I think. I got in, but it went that fast that I was afeared to get out again.” (This was my motor.)
“It’s as well for you that you did not, for we are going to do you good, David. First of all you have got to realise that you are dead. You were drowned that time you fell into the moat.”
“Well I never. That’s a queer idea.”
“Now understand this.” (It is Dr. Wickland, who is talking in cool, gentle, assured tones.) “You can do anything now by the power of thought, if you know how to use it. This hump of yours. Take it off. Take it off, I say. Your back is as straight as mine.” (The bent figure began to straighten up and to sit erect in the chair. Suddenly both hands were thrown forward.)
“Mother, mother.” (His face had become younger, more intelligent and was shining with ecstacy.) “I see her and it’s mother, but she looks younger than I can remember.”
“She will take charge of you now. You have been brought here by higher powers for a purpose — to save you. Do you want to go back to the old house?”
“No, no, I want to go to mother. Oh you good kind people” — the rest was just incoherent gratitude.
And so it was that the earth-bound ostler found his mother at last among the rambler roses of my balcony. Have I not said truly that the actual experiences of the Spiritualist, of which this is one in a hundred, are stranger far than what I should dare to invent?
Is it all a fairy-tale? How about the change in the medium? How about the ostler’s dress so accurately described? How about the cases where the actual names and addresses have been verified by the Wicklands?
It is not a fairy-tale, but it is a new realm of knowledge which the human race has now to explore and to conquer.
V
THE LAW OF THE GHOST
It is safe to say that for some centuries to come the human race will be very actively engaged in defining the laws which regulate psychic affairs, and it is fortunately a line of study which has the peculiar advantage to those who indulge in it that they can pursue it just as well, and probably better, from the other side of the veil. At present there is work lying to hand for a hundred investigators. The innumerable records which exist in various forms, and which are scattered throughout papers, magazines, reports of learned societies, family traditions, etc., are like masses of ore which have been extracted from the ground but are still lying in dumps waiting to be separated into precious ingots on the one side and slag-heap on the other. They have to be examined, collected into classes, reviewed in the light of our ever-increasing psychic knowledge, and an endeavour made to find underlying principles running through this vague collection of matter, so that at last we may touch solid ground by getting hold of some elementary laws. The first thing is that we should have authentic cases so that the foundation of our reasoning may be sound. The second is to compare these authentic cases together and see what common characteristics they possess, shirking nothing and following the facts wherever they lead without any preliminary prejudice. This is, of course, the true scientific fashion, but it is unfortunately one which has been neglected by most scientific men in approaching this new subject which would not fit in with their preconceived ideas. Let us hunt among these fascinating problems for shards and splinters out of which a noble mosaic will one day be constructed, and let us see whether here and there we may not find two or three pieces which fit together, and give some idea of a permanent pattern, even though it be a fantastic one. I will begin by telling three stories which seem to be absolutely authentic, and then we shall endeavour to trace some underlying connection.
For full particulars of the first case the reader is referred to West Indian Tales, by Algernon Aspinall, with the explanation that the word “Tales” is not used in the sense of inventions, and that the facts are authentic, as is proved by numerous references in the narrative. These facts relate to the singular series of events which happened in connection with the vault at Christ-church, near the village of Oistin, on the south coast of Barbados. In the old slave days when rum and sugar were the foundations of many a goodly fortune, things were done on a large scale in the West Indies, and this burial vault was a very fine one. It was made of great blocks of coral and cement, partly sunk into the earth, for the graveyard was on an exposed hill, and terrific storms sweep over these latitudes. The entrance was covered by a huge slab of marble. Within, the dimensions of the vault were twelve feet by six and a half. So Cyclopean was the masonry and so remote the site that one would imagine an inmate was almost as secure as a king of Egypt in the heart of his pyramid. A contractor and a gang of skilled workmen would be needed to effect an entrance into so solid a construction. Little did those who erected it imagine that the whole island would be convulsed by the repeated proofs of its insecurity.
In July, 1807, a Mrs. Goddard was buried therein, and her coffin was found undisturbed in February, 1808, when a child named Mary Chase was laid in a leaden casket beside her. For four years the vault was closed, but in July, 1812, it was opened to admit a Miss Dorcas Chase. The horrified workmen found the coffin of the infant standing on its head in a corner. It was supposed that some mischievous and sacrilegious wretch had been guilty of a senseless outrage, so after the coffin was rearranged the great marble slab was once again placed in position, to be opened next month when a Mr. Chase joined the family group within. During the month there seems to have been no disturbance.
In September, 1816, four years having again elapsed, the vault was opened once more to admit an infant, Samuel Arnes Once again all was in horrible confusion, and the coffins littered across one another. The affair was now becoming a scandal and the talk of the whole settlement, the whites putting it down to vandalism and the negroes to ghosts. Once again the vault was closed, and once again, two months later, it was opened to admit Samuel Brewster. Crowds followed the coffin and gathered round the vault when the great slab was pushed aside. In the short interval everything had again been disarranged, the coffins being abominably mishandled. Mrs. Goddard’s coffin, which seems to have been of wood, was broken, but this may have been natural decay. The leaden coffins were scattered at all angles. Once again they were reverently collected, the wooden coffin was tied up, and the vault secured.
Three years later, on July 7th, 1819, Miss Clarke was to be buried in the vault. So great was the public excitement that the governor, Lord Combermere, of Peninsula fame, attended the ceremony with his staff and aides-de-camp. Things were as bad as ever. The wooden coffin was intact, but the others were scattered in all directions. Lord Combermere was so interested that he had the whole structure searched and sounded, but there was no hidden approach or underground passage. It was an insoluble mystery. The coffins were rearranged and the floor carefully sanded so that footsteps would be revealed. The door was cemented up, which seems to have been done on each occasion, but this time the Governor affixed his own particular seal. The British Government had officially entered the lists against the powers of darkness.
It is humiliating to add that the powers of darkness seemed not in the least abashed either by the Governor or by the Empire which he represented. Next year, in April 1820, it was determined that an official inspection should be made without waiting for a fresh interment. Lord Combermere with a formidable official party and a strong ally in the Rev. T. Orderson, rector of the parish, repaired to the vault, where the seals were found intact and all in apparent order.
The cement was then broken and the slab removed by the exertions of ten negroes, who had the utmost difficulty in forcing an entrance. On exposing the interior it was found to the horror and amazement of the party that the difficulty in opening the vault had been caused by the fact that a leaden coffin within, so heavy that several men c
ould hardly move it, had been jammed upside down against the slab. There was great confusion within but no marks upon the sand which covered the floor. So horrified was everyone by this final test that the bodies were now removed, and buried elsewhere. The empty vault remains, and is likely for many centuries to remain, as a refuge for snakes or centipedes, upon the lonely headland which overlooks the Atlantic.
What is one to make of such a story as that? The facts seem to be beyond question. Are there any points which are particularly to be noted from a psychic point of view, in the hope that the germs of law may lie within? One is that the antipathy of those unseen forces was aroused apparently by the leaden coffins. When the wooden coffin was alone it was not molested. Its decay seems to have been natural, and when it was tied up it was not again disturbed. If it ever received any injury it may well have been from the weight of the ponderous leaden coffins which were dashed about around it. That is one possible point. A second and more important one is that all psychic phenomena seem to show that the disembodied have no power of their own, but that it is always derived from the emanations of the living, which we call animal magnetism or other names. Now this vault with its absolutely air-tight walls was particularly adapted for holding in such forces — being an exaggerated form of that cabinet which is used for that very purpose by a genuine medium. If the walls of cloth of a cabinet can contain these emanations and condense them, how much more the solid walls of this vault. To bring in these weighty leaden coffins the space must have been crowded with over-heated negroes, and when the slab was at once hermetically sealed, these effluvia were enclosed and remained behind, furnishing a possible source of that material power which is needful for material effects. These are two points worth noting before we pass on to see if any other such cases may fall into line with this one.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 1379