 Ms. Merrick Revelation by Edgar Allan Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ms. Merrick Revelation by Edgar Allan Poe. Read by Rich Rhys. Whatever doubt may still envelop the rationale of mesmerism, its startling facts are now almost universally admitted. Of these latter, those who doubt are your mere doubters by profession, an unprofitable and disreputable tribe. There can be no more absolute waste of time than the attempt to prove at the present day that man, by mere exercise of will, can so impress his fellows as to cast him into an abnormal condition, of which the phenomenon resemble very closely those of death, or at least resemble them more nearly than they do the phenomena of any other normal condition within our cognizance. That while in this state the person so impressed employs only with effort and then feebly the external organs of sense, yet perceives with keenly refined perception and through channels supposed unknown, matters beyond the scope of the physical organs. That, moreover, his intellectual faculties are wonderfully exalted and invigorated. That his sympathies with the person so impressing him are profound. And, finally, that his susceptibility to the impression increases with its frequency, while in the same proportion the peculiar phenomena elicited are more extended and more pronounced. I say that these, which are the laws of mesmerism in its general features, it would be super-arrogation to demonstrate, nor shall I inflict upon my readers so needless a demonstration today. My purpose at present is a very different one indeed. I am impelled even in the teeth of a world of prejudice to detail without comment the very remarkable substance of a colloquy occurring between a sleep-waker and myself. I had long been in the habit of mesmerizing the person in question, Mr. Van Kirk, and the usual acute susceptibility and exaltation of the mesmeric perception had supervene. For many months he had been laboring under confirmed tisus the more distressing effects of which had been relieved by my manipulations. And on the night of Wednesday, the 15th instant, I was summoned to his bedside. The invalid was suffering with acute pain in the region of the heart and breathed with great difficulty having all the ordinary symptoms of asthma. In spasms such as these he had usually found relief from the application of mustard to the nervous centers, but tonight this had been attempted in vain. As I entered his room he greeted me with a cheerful smile and although evidently in much bodily pain appeared to be mentally quite at ease. I sent for you tonight, he said, not so much to administer to my bodily ailment as to satisfy me concerning certain physical impressions which of late have occasioned me much anxiety and surprise. I need not tell you how skeptical I have hitherto been on the topic of the soul's immortality. I cannot deny that there has always existed, as if in that very soul which I have been denying, a vague half-sentiment of its own existence. But this half-sentiment at no time amounted to conviction. With it my reason had nothing to do. All attempts at logical inquiry resulted, indeed, in leaving me more skeptical than before. I had been advised to study cousin. I had studied him in his own works as well as in those of his European and American echoes. The Charles L. Wood of Mr. Bronson, for example, was placed in my hands. I read it with profound attention. Throughout I found it logical, but the portions which were not merely logical were unhappily the initial arguments of the disbelieving hero of the book. In his summing up it seemed evident to me that the reasoner had not even succeeded in convincing himself. His end had plainly forgotten his beginning like the government of Trinculo. In short, I was not long perceiving that if man is to be intellectually convinced of his own immortality, he will never be so convinced by the mere abstractions which have been so long the fashion of the moralist of England, of France, and of Germany. Abstractions may amuse and exercise to take no hold on the mind. Here upon earth, at least, philosophy, I am persuaded will always in vain call upon us to look upon qualities as thin. The will may assent, the soul, the intellect, never. I repeat then that I only half felt and never intellectually believed, but laterally there has been a certain deepening of the feeling until it has come so nearly to resemble the acquiescence of reason that I find it difficult to distinguish the two. I am enabled, too, plainly to trace this effect to the mesmeric influence. I cannot better explain my meaning than by the hypothesis that the mesmeric exaltation enables me to perceive a train of ratiosination, which in my abnormal existence convinces but which in full accordance with mesmeric phenomena does not extend except through its effect into my normal condition. In sleep waking, the reasoning and its conclusion, the cause and its effect are present together. In my natural state, the cause vanishes, the effect only and perhaps only partially remain. These considerations have led me to think that some good results might ensue from a series of well-directed questions propounded to me while mesmerized. You have often observed the profound self-cognizance evinced by the sleep waker, the extensive knowledge he displays upon all points relating to the mesmeric condition itself, and from this self-cognizance may be deduced hints for the proper conduct of the catechism. I consented, of course, to make this experiment. A few passes through Mr. Van Kirk into the mesmeric sleep. His breathing became immediately more easy and he seemed to suffer no physical uneasiness. Following conversation then ensued, V in the dialogue representing the patient and P, myself. P, are you asleep? V, yes, no. I would rather sleep more soundly. P, after a few more passes. Do you sleep now? V, yes. P, how do you think your present illness will result? V, after long hesitation and speaking as if with effort, I must die. P, is the idea of death afflict you? V, very quickly. No, no. P, are you pleased with the prospect? V, if I were awake, I should like to die, but now it is no matter. The mesmeric condition is so near death as to content me. P, I wish you would explain yourself, Mr. Van Kirk. V, I am willing to do so, but it requires more effort than I feel able to make. You do not question me properly. P, what then shall I ask? V, you must begin at the beginning. P, the beginning. But where is the beginning? V, you know that the beginning is God. This was said in a low fluctuating tone with every sign of the most profound veneration. P, what then is God? V, hesitating for many minutes. I cannot tell. P, is not God's spirit? V, while I was awake, I knew what you meant by spirit, but now it seems only a word, such for instance as truth, beauty. A quality, I mean. P, is not God immaterial? V, there is no immateriality. It is a mere word. That which is not matter, is not at all, unless qualities are things. P, is God then material? V, no. This reply startled me very much. P, what then is he? V, after a long pause and mutteringly. I see, but it is a thing difficult to tell, another long pause. He is not spirit, or exists. Nor is he matter as you understand it, but there are gradations of matter of which man knows nothing. Groser impelling the finer, the finer pervading the grosser. The atmosphere, for example, impels the electric principle, while the electric principle permeates the atmosphere. These gradations of matter increase in rarity, of fineness, until we arrive at a matter unpartical, without particles, indivisible, one, and here the law of impulsion and permeation is modified. The ultimate of unpartical matter not only permeates all things, but impels all things, and thus is all things within itself. This matter is God. What man attempt to embody, in the word thought, is this matter in motion? P, the metaphysicians maintain that all action is reducible to motion and thinking, and that the latter is the origin of the form of V. Yes, and I now see the confusion of ideas. Motion is the action of mind, not of thinking. The unpartical matter, or God, in quiescence, is as nearly as we can conceive it what men call mind. And the power of self-movement, equivalent in effect to human volition is, in unpartical matter, the result of its unity and omniprevalence. How I know not, and now clearly see, that I shall never know, but the unpartical matter set in motion by a law or quality existing within itself is thinking. P, can you give me no more precise idea of what you term the unpartical matter? V, the matters of which man is cognizant escape the senses and gradation. We have, for example, a metal, a piece of wood, a drop of water, the atmosphere, gas, caloric electricity. The luminiferous, ether. Now we call all these things matter, embrace all matter in one general definition. But in spite of this there can be no two ideas more essentially distinct than that which we attach to a metal, and that which we attach to the luminiferous ether. When we reach the latter we feel an almost irresistible inclination to class it with spirit, or with nihility, the only consideration which restrains us is our conception of its atomic constitution. And here even we have to seek aid from our notion of an atom as something possessing an infinite minuteness, solidity, palpability, weight. Destroy the idea of the atomic constitution and we should no longer be able to regard the ether as an entity, or at least as matter, for want of a better word we might term its spirit. Take now a step beyond the luminiferous ether, conceive a matter as much more rare than the ether, as this ether is more rare than the metal. We arrive at once, in spite of all the school dogmas, at a unique mass, an unparticle matter, for although we admit the infinite littleness and the atoms themselves, the infinitude of littleness and the spaces between them is an absurdity. There will be a point, there will be a degree of rarity at which if the atoms are sufficiently numerous the interspaces must vanish and the mass absolutely coalesce. But the consideration of the atomic constitution being now taken away, the nature of the mass inevitably glides into what we conceive of spirit. It is clear, however, that it is as fully matter as before. The truth is, it is impossible to conceive spirit since it is impossible to imagine what is not. When we flatter ourselves that we have formed its conception, we have merely deceived our understanding by the consideration of infinitely rarefied matter. P. There seems to me an unsurmountable objection to the idea of absolute coalescence and that is the very slight resistance experienced by the heavenly bodies in their revolutions through space, a resistance now ascertained it is true to exist in some degree, but which is nevertheless so slight as to have been quite overlooked by the sagacity even of Newton. We know that the resistance of bodies is chiefly in proportion to their density. Absolute coalescence is absolute density where there are no interspaces. There can be no yielding. An ether absolutely dense would put an infinitely more effectual stop to the progress of a star than would an ether of adamant or of iron. V. Your objection is answered with an ease which is nearly in the ratio of its apparent unanswerability. As regards the progress of the star it can make no difference whether the star passes through the ether or the ether through it. There is no astronomical error more accountable than that which reconciles the known retardation with the idea of their passage through an ether for. However rare this ether be supposed it would put a stop to all sidereal revolution in a very far briefer period than has been admitted by those astronomers who have endeavored to slur over a point which they found it impossible to comprehend. Retardation actually experienced is on the other hand about that which might be expected from the friction of the ether and the instantaneous passage through the orb. In the one case the retarding force is momentary and complete within itself and the other it is endlessly accumulative. P. But in all of this in this identification of mere matter with God is there nothing of irreverence? I was forced to repeat this question before the sleep-waker fully comprehended my meaning. V. Can you say why matter should be less reverence than mind? But you forget that the matter of which mind or spirit of the schools so far as regards its high capacities is moreover the matter of these schools at the same time. God with all the powers attributed to spirit but the perfection of matter. P. You assert then that the unparticle matter in motion is thought. V. In general this motion is the universal thought of the universal mind. This thought creates all created things about the thoughts of God. P. You say in general V. Yes, the universal mind is God for new individualities matter is necessary. P. But you now speak of mind and matter as do the metaphysicians. V. Yes, to avoid confusion. When I say mind I mean the unparticle ultimate matter by matter and tend to all else. P. You were saying that for new individualities matter is necessary. V. Yes, for mind existing unincorporate is merely God. To create individual thinking beings it was necessary to incarnate portions of the divine mind. Thus man is individualized, divested of corporate investiture. He were God. Now the particular motion of the incarnated portions of the unparticle matter is the thought of man. As the motion of the whole is that of God. P. You say that divested of the body man will be God. V. After much hesitation I could not have said this. It is an absurdity. P. Referring to my notes. You did say that divested of corporate investiture man were God. V. And this is true. Man thus divested would be God. Would be unindividualized. But he can never be thus divested. At least never will be. Else we must imagine an action of God returning upon itself. A purposeless and futile action. Man is a creature. Creatures are thoughts of God. It is the nature of thought to be irrevocable. P. I do not comprehend. You say that man will never put off the body. V. I say that he will never be bodyless. P. Explain. V. There are two bodies. The rudimental and the complete. Corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call death is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is the perfected ultimate immortal. The ultimate life is the full design. P. But of the worms metamorphosis we are palpably cognizant. V. We. Certainly, but not the worm. The matter of which our rudimental body is composed is within the ken of the organs of that body. Or more distinctly our rudimental organs are adapted to the matter of which is formed, the rudimental body. But not to that of which the ultimate is composed. The ultimate body thus escapes our rudimental senses. And we perceive only the shell which falls and decaying from the inner form. Not that inner form itself, but this inner form as well as the shell is appreciable by those who have already acquired the ultimate life. P. You have often said that the mesmeric state very nearly resembles death. How is this? V. When I say that it resembles death, I mean that it resembles the ultimate life. When I am in trance the senses of my rudimental life are in abeyance. And I perceive external things directly without organs through a medium which I shall employ in the ultimate unorganized life. P. Unorganized? V. Yes. Organs are contrivances by which the individual is brought into this sensible relation with the particular classes and forms of matter to the exclusion of other classes and forms. The organs of man are adapted to his rudimental condition and to that only. His ultimate condition, being unorganized, is of ultimate comprehension in all points but one. The nature of the volition of God, that is to say the motion of the unparticle matter. You may have a distinct idea of the ultimate body by conceiving it to be entire brain. This it is not. But a conception of this nature will bring you near a comprehension of what it is. A luminous body imparts vibration to the luminiferous ether. The vibrations generate similar ones within the retina. These again communicate similar ones to the optic nerve. The nerve conveys similar ones to the brain. The brain also similar ones to the unparticle matter which permeates it. The motion of this matter is thought. Of which perception is the first undulation. This is the mode by which the mind of the rudimental life communicates with the external world. And this external world is to the rudimental life limited through the idiosyncrasy of its organs. But in the ultimate unorganized life the external world reaches the whole body which is of a substance having affinity to brain, as I have said, with no other intervention than that of an infinitely rare ether than even the luminiferous. And to this ether in unison with it the whole body vibrates, setting in motion the unparticle matter which permeates it. It is to the absence of idiosyncratic organs therefore that we must attribute the nearly unlimited perception of the ultimate life. To rudimental beings organs are the cages necessary to confine them until fledged. P. You speak of rudimental beings. Are there other rudimental thinking beings than man? V. The multitudinous conglomeration of rare matter into nebulae, planets, suns, and other bodies which are neither nebulized suns nor planets is for the sole purpose of supplying pabulum for the idiosyncrasy of the organs of an infinity of rudimental beings. But for the necessity of the rudimental prior to the ultimate life there would have been no bodies such as these. Each of these is tenanted by a distinct variety of organic rudimental thinking creatures. In all the organs vary with the features of the place tenanted at death or metamorphosis. These creatures enjoying the ultimate life, immortality, and cognizant of all secrets but the one act all things and pass everywhere by mere volition indwelling not the stars which to us seem the sole palpabilities and for the accommodation of which we blindly deem space created but that space itself, that infinity of which the truly substantive vastness swallows up the star shadows blotting them out as non-entities from the perception of the angels. P. You say that but for the necessity of the rudimental life there would have been no stars but why this necessity? V. In the inorganic life as well as in the inorganic matter generally there is nothing to impede the action of one simple unique law the divine volition. With the view of producing impediment the organic life and matter complex substantial and law encumbered were contrived. P. But again why need this impediment have been produced? V. The result of law in violet is perfection, right, negative happiness. The result of law violet is imperfection, wrong, positive pain. Through the impediments afforded by the number complexity and substantiality of the laws of organic life and matter the violation of law is rendered to a certain extent practicable. Thus pain, which is the inorganic life is impossible, is possible in the organic. P. But to what good end is pain thus rendered possible? V. All things are either good or bad by comparison. Sufficient analysis will show that pleasure in all cases is but the contrast of pain. Positive pleasure is a mere idea. To be happy at any one point we must have suffered at the same. Never to suffer would have been never to have been blessed but it has been shown that in the inorganic life pain cannot be thus the necessity for the organic. The pain of the primitive life of Earth is the sole basis of the bliss of the ultimate life in heaven. P. Still, there is one of your expressions which I find it impossible to comprehend, the truly substantive vastness of infinity. V. This probably is because you have no sufficiently generic conception of the term substance itself. We must not regard it as a quality but as a sentiment. It is the perception and thinking beings of the adaptation of matter to their organization. There are many things on the Earth which would be nihility to the inhabitants of Venus. Many things visible and tangible in Venus which we could not be brought to appreciate as existing at all. But to the inorganic beings, to the angels, the whole of the unparticled matter is substance. That is to say, the whole of what we term space is to them the truest substantiality, stars meantime, through what we consider their materiality, escaping the angelic sense just in proportion as the unparticled matter through what we consider its immateriality, eludes the organic. As the sleep-waker pronounced these latter words in a feeble tone, I observed on his countenance a singular expression which somewhat alarmed me and induced me to awake him at once. No sooner had I done this than with a bright smile irradiating all his features, he fell back upon his pillow and expired. I noticed that in less than a minute afterward his corpse had all the stern rigidity of stone. His brow was of the coldness of ice. Thus ordinarily should have appeared only after long pressure from Azrael's hand. Had the sleep-waker indeed during the latter portion of his discourse been addressing me from out of the regions of the shadows, the end. Footprints. Footprints. The footprints of one dead. How ghastly they look as they fall before me. Up and down the long hall they go and I follow them, pit, pat. They fall those unearthly steps and beneath them starts up that awful impress. I can see it grow upon the marble, a damp and dreadful thing. Tread them down, tread them out, follow after them with muddy shoes and cover them up. In vain. See how they rise through the mire. Who can tread out the footprints of the dead? And so on, up and down the dim vista of the past following the sounds of the dead feet that wander so restlessly, stamping upon the impress that will not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of human misery. Fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory. Stamp, mirey feet, stamp into forgetfulness that will not be forgotten. And so on, on to the end. Pretty ideas for a man about to be married, especially when they float into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky and he is going to be married tomorrow. There is no mistake about it, the wedding, I mean, to be plain and matter of fact why there stand the presents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, ranged in solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observe when one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores of unsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of their esteem. It was very different when I married my first wife. I remember, but then that match was not satisfactory. Just a love match, no more. There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me with beautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especially the human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almost poetical over a silver teapot when one is going to be married tomorrow. On how many future mornings shall I be confronted with that teapot? Probably for all my life, and on the other side of the teapot will be the cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind them both. Also the chaste sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, and behind everything will be my second wife. My dear, she will say, will you have another cup of tea? And probably I shall have another cup. Well, it is very curious to notice what ideas will come into a man's head sometimes. Sometimes something waves a magic wand over his being and from the recesses of his soul dim things arise and walk. At unexpected moments they come, and he grows aware of the issues of his mysterious life, and his heart shakes and shivers like a lightning-shattered tree. In that drear light all earthly things seem far, and all unseen things draw near and take shape and awe him. And he knows not what is true and what is false. Neither can he trace the edge that marks off the spirit from the life. Then it is that the footsteps echo, and the ghostly footprints will not be stamped out. Pretty thoughts again, and how persistently they come. It is one o'clock, and I will go to bed. The rain is falling in sheets outside. I can hear it lashing against the window-pains, and the wind wails through the tall, wet elms at the end of the garden. I could tell the voice of those elms anywhere. I know it as well as the voice of a friend. What a night it is. We sometimes get them in this part of England in October. It was just such a night when my first wife died. And that is three years ago. I remember how she sat up in her bed. Ah, those horrible elms, she said. I wish you would have them cut down, Frank. They cry like a woman. And I said I would, and just after that she died, poor dear. And so the old elms stand, and I like their music. It is a strange thing. I was half broken-hearted, for I loved her dearly, and she loved me with all her life and strength, to be married again. Frank, Frank, don't forget me. Those were my wife's last words, and indeed, though I am going to be married again tomorrow, I have not forgotten her. Nor shall I forget how Annie Guthrie, whom I am going to marry now, came to see her the day before she died. I know that Annie always liked me more or less, and I think that my dear wife guessed it. After she had kissed Annie and bid her a last goodbye, her head closed, she spoke quite suddenly. There goes your future wife, Frank, she said. You should have married her at first instead of me. She's very handsome and very good, and she has two thousand a year. She would never have died of a nervous illness. And she laughed a little, and then added, Oh, Frank, dear, I wonder if you will be thinking of me before you marry Annie Guthrie. Wherever I am, I shall be thinking of you. And now that time which she foresaw has come, and Heaven knows that I have thought of her, poor dear. Ah, those footsteps of one dead that will echo through our lives, those woman's footprints on the marble flooring which will not be stamped out. Most of us have heard and seen them at some time or another, and I hear and see them very plainly tonight. Poor dead wife. I wonder if there are any doors in the land where you have gone through which you can creep out to look at me tonight. I hope that there are none. Death must indeed be a hell if the dead can see and feel and take measure of the forgetful faithfulness of their beloved. Well, I will go to bed and try to get a little rest. I am not so young or so strong as I was, and this wedding wears me out. I wish that the whole thing were done or had never been begun. What was that? It was not the wind, for it never makes that sound here, and it was not the rain, for a moment. Nor was it the howling of a dog, for I keep none. It was more like the crying of a woman's voice, but what woman can be abroad on such a night or such an hour? Half past one in the morning. There it is again. A dreadful sound. It makes the blood turn chill and yet has something familiar about it. It is a woman's voice calling round the house. There she is at the window now and rattling it, and she is calling me. Frank! Frank! Frank! She calls. I strive to stir and unshutter that window, but before I can get there she is knocking and calling at another. Gone again with her dreadful wail of Frank! Frank! Now I hear her at the front door and half mad with a horrible fear I run down the long dark hall and unbarred. There is nothing there, but the drip of the rain from the portico. But I can hear the wailing voice going round the house past the patch of shrubbery. I close the door and listen. There she has got through the little yard and is at the back door now. Whoever it is she must know the way about the house. Along the hall I go again through a swing door, through the servants' hall, stumbling down some steps at kitchen where the embers of the fire are still alive in the grate, the servants' gloom. Whoever it is is at the door knocking now with her clenched hand against the hard wood, and it is wonderful, though she knocks so low how the sound echoes through the empty kitchens. There I stood and hesitated, trembling in every limb. I dared not open the door. No words of mine can convey this sense of utter desolation that overpowered me. I felt as though I were the only living man in the whole world. Frank! Frank! I was the voice with the dreadful, familiar ring in it. Open the door. I am so cold I have so little time. My heart stood still and yet my hands were constrained to obey. Slowly, slowly I lifted the latch and unbarred the door, and as I did so a great rush of air snatched it from my hands and swept it wide. The black clouds had broken a little overhead and there was a patch of blue rain-washed sky with just a star or two glimmering in it fitfully. For a moment I could only see this bit of sky, but by degrees I made out the accustomed outline of the great trees swinging furiously against it and the rigid line of the coping of the garden wall beneath them. Then a whirling leaf hit me smartly on the face and instinctively I dropped my eyes onto something that as yet I could not distinguish. Something small and black and wet. What are you? I gasped. I seemed to feel that it was not a person. I could not say who are you. Don't you know me? Welled the voice with the far-off familiar ring about it. And I may not come in and show myself I haven't the time. You were so long opening the door, Frank, and I am so cold, so bitterly cold. Look, there, the moon is coming out and you will be able to see me. I suppose that you long to see me you. As the figure spoke or rather wailed a moon-beam struggled through the watery air and fell on it. It was short and shrunken, the figure of a tiny woman. Also it was dressed in black and wore a black covering over the whole head shrouding it after the fashion of a bridal veil. From every part of this veil and dress the water fell in heavy drops. The figure bore a small basket on her left arm and her hand, such a poor, thin little hand, gleamed white in the moonlight. I noticed that on the third finger was a red line showing that a wedding-ring had once been there. The other hand was stretched towards me as though in entreaty. All this I saw in an instant as it were and as I saw it horror seemed to grip me by the throat as though it were a living thing, for as the voice had been familiar so was the form familiar, though the churchyard had received it long years ago. I could not speak. I could not even move. Oh, don't you know me yet? wailed the voice. And I have come from so far to see you and I cannot stop. Look, look! And she began to pluck feverishly with her poor, thin hand at the black veil that enshrouded her. At last it came off and as in a dream I saw what in a dim, frozen way I had expected to see. It was in pale yellow hair of my dead wife. Unable to speak or to stir I gazed and gazed. There was no mistake about it. It was she, I, even as I had last seen her, white with the whiteness of death with purple circles round her eyes and the grave cloth yet beneath her chin. Only her eyes were wide open and fixed upon my face and a lock of the soft yellow hair had broken loose and the wind tossed it. You know me now, Frank? Don't you, Frank? It has been so hard to come to see you and so cold. But you are going to be married tomorrow, Frank, and I promised, oh, a long time ago to think of you when you were going to be married wherever I was. And I have kept my promise and I have come from where I am and brought a present with me. It was bitter to die so young. I was so young to die and leave you, but I had to go. Take it, take it, be quick. Don't say any longer. I could not give you my life, Frank, so I have brought you my death. Take it. The figure thrust the basket into my hand and as it did so the rain came up again and began to obscure the moonlight. I must go, I must go. Went on the dreadful familiar voice in a cry of despair. Oh, why were you so long opening the door? I wanted to talk to you before you married, Annie, and now I shall never see you again. Never, never, never, I have lost you forever, ever, ever. As the last wailing notes died away the wind came down with a rush and a whirl and the sweep as of a thousand wings and threw me back into the house bringing the door too with a crash after me. I staggered into the kitchen, the basket in my hand and set it on the table. Just then some embers of the fire fell in and a faint little flame rose and glimmered on the bright dishes on the dresser, even revealing a tin candlestick with a box of matches by it. I was well-nigh mad with the darkness and fear and seizing the matches I struck one and held it to the candle. Presently it caught and I glanced round the room. It was just as usual just as the servants had left it and above the mantelpiece the eight-day clock ticked away solemnly. While I looked at it it struck too and in a dim fashion it was thankful for its friendly sound. Then I looked at the basket. It was a very fine white-plated work with black bands running up it and a checkered black and white handle. I knew it well. I have never seen another like it. I bought it years ago at Madeira and gave it to my poor wife. Ultimately it was washed overboard in a gale in the Irish Channel. I remember that it was full of newspapers and library books and I had to pay for them. Many and many is the time that I have seen that identical basket standing there on that very kitchen table. For my dear wife always used to put flowers in it and the shortest cut from that part of the garden where her roses grew was through the kitchen. She used to gather the flowers and then come in and place her basket on the table just where it stood now and order the dinner. All this passed through my mind in a few seconds as I stood there with the candle in my hand and yet with my mind painfully alive. I began to wonder if I had gone to sleep and was the victim of a nightmare. No such thing. I wish it had only been a nightmare. A mouse ran out along the dresser and jumped onto the floor making quite a crash in the silence. What was in the basket? I feared to look and yet some power within me forced me to do it. I drew near to the table and stood for a moment listening to the sound of my own heart. I reached out my hand and slowly raised the lid of the basket. I could not give you my life so I have brought you my death. Those were her words. What could she mean? And what could it all mean? I must know or I would go mad. There it lay, whatever it was, wrapped up in linen. Ah! Heaven help me! It was a small bleached human skull. A dream. After all, only a dream by the fire and what a dream. And I am to be married tomorrow. Can I be married tomorrow? End of Only A Dream by H. Ryder Haggard PhantasmaGoria by Lewis Carroll This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. PhantasmaGoria by Lewis Carroll Kanto Run The Tristing One winter night at half past nine cold, tired and cross and muddy I had come home too late to dine and supper with cigars and wine was waiting in the studdle. There was a strangeness in the room and something white and wavy was standing near me in the gloom. I took it for the carpet broom left by that careless slavey. But presently the thing began to shiver and to sneeze on which I said, come, come my man, that's a most inconsiderate plan less noise there if you please. I've caught a cold, the thing replies out there upon the landing. I turned to look in some surprise and there before my very eyes a little ghost was standing. He trembled when he caught my eye and got behind a chair. How came you here? I said. And why? I never saw a thing so shy, come out, don't shoot. He said, I'd gladly tell you how and also tell you why. But, here he gave a little bow, you're in so bad a temper now you'd think it all a lie. And as to being in a fright allow me to remark that ghosts have just as good a right in every way to fear the light as men to fear the dark. No plea said the ghost No plea, said I can well excuse such cowardice in you for ghosts can visit when they choose whereas we humans can't refuse to grant the interview. He said, A flutter of alarm is not unnatural is it? I really feared you meant some harm but now I see that you are calm let me explain my visit. Houses are closed I beg to state according to the number of ghosts that they accommodate. The tenant merely counts as weight with coals and other lumber. This is a one ghost house and you, when you arrived last summer may have remarked a specter who was doing all that ghosts can do to welcome the newcomer. In villas this is always done however cheaply rented. For though of course there's less of fun when there is only room for one ghosts have to be contented. That specter left you on the third since then you've not been haunted for as he never sent us word it was quite by accident we heard that anyone was wanted. A specter has first choice by right in filling up a vacancy then phantom, goblin, elf and sprite. All these fail them they invite the nicest gob that they can see. The specters said the place was low and that you kept bad wine so as a phantom had to go and I was first of course you know I couldn't well decline. No doubt said I they settled on who was fittest to be sent yet still to choose a brat like you to haunted man of 42 no great compliment. I'm not so young sir replied as you might think the fact is in cabins by the water side and other places that I've tried I've had a lot of practice but I've never taken yet a strict domestic part and in my flurry I forget the five good rules of etiquette we have to know by heart my sympathies were warming fast towards the little fellow he was so utterly aghast at having found a man at last and looked so scared and yellow. At least I said I'm glad to find a ghost is not a done thing but pray sit down you're feeling climbed if like myself you have not dined to take a snap of something though certainly you don't appear a thing to offer food to and then I shall be glad to hear if you will say them loud and clear the rules that you allude to thanks you shall hear them by and by this is a piece of luck what may I offer you said I well since you are so kind I'll try a little bit of duck one slice and may I ask you for another drop of gravy I sat and looked at him in awe for certainly I never saw a thing so white and wavy and still he seemed to grow more white more vapoury and wavier seen in the dim and flickering light as he proceeded to recite his maxims of behaviour canto too is five rules my first but don't suppose he said I'm setting you a riddle as if your victim be in bed don't touch the curtains he'll raise his head but take them in the middle and wave them slowly in and out while drawing them asunder and in a minute's time no doubt he'll raise his head and look about with eyes of wrath and wonder until you must on no pretense make the first observation wait for the victim to commence no ghost of any common sense begins a conversation if he should say how came you here the way that you began sir in such a case your course is clear on the bat's back my little dear is the appropriate answer if after this he says no more you'd best perhaps curtail your exertions go and shake the door and then if he begins to snore you'll know the things are failure by day if he should be alone at home or on a walk you merely give a hollow groan to indicate the kind of tone in which you mean to talk but if you find him with his friends the thing is rather harder in such a case success depends on picking up some candle ends or butter in the larder with this you make a kind of slide it answers best with suet on which you must contrive to glide and swing yourself from side to side once him learns how to do it the second tells us what is right in ceremonious calls first burn a blue or crimson light the thing I quite forgot tonight then scratch the door or walls I said you'll visit here no more if you attempt the guy I'll have no bonfires on my floor and as for scratching at the door I'd like to see you try the third was written to protect the interest of the victim and tells us as I recollect to treat him with a grave respect and not to contradict him that's plain said I as tear and turret to any comprehension I only wish some ghost I've met would not so constantly forget the maxim that you mention perhaps he said you first transgressed the laws of humanity all ghosts instinctively detest the man that fails to treat his guest with proper cordiality if you address a ghost as thing or strike him with a hatchet he is permitted by the king to drop all formal parley and then you're sure to catch it the fourth prohibits trespassing where other ghosts are quartered and those convicted of the thing unless when pardoned by the king must instantly be slaughtered that simply means be cut up small ghosts soon unite anew the process scarcely hurts at all not more than when you're what you call cut up by a review the fifth is one you may prefer that I should quote entire the king must be addressed as sir this from a simple courtier the laws require but should you wish to do the thing with out and out politeness accost him as my goblin king and always using answering the phrase your royal whiteness I'm getting rather horse I fear after so much reciting so if you don't object my dear we'll try a glass of bitter beer I think it looks inviting canto three and did you really walk said I on such a wretched night I always fancied ghosts could fly if not exactly in the sky yet at a fairish height it's very well said he for kings to soar above the earth but phantoms often find that wings like many other pleasant things cost more than they are worth specters of course are rich and so and buy them from the elves but we prefer to keep below they're stupid company you know for any but themselves for though they claim to be exempt from pride they treat a phantom as something quite beneath contempt just as no turkey ever dreamt of noticing a phantom they seem too proud said I to go to houses such as mine pray how did they contrive to know so quickly that the place was low and that I kept a bad wine inspector cobalt came to you the little ghost began here I broke in inspector who inspecting ghosts is something you explain yourself my man his name is cobalt said my guest one of the specter order who very often see him dressed in a yellow gown a crimson vest and a nightcap with a border he tried the broken business first but caught a sort of chill so came to england to be nurse and here it took the form of first which he complains of still pulled wine he says when rich and sound warms his old bones like nectar and as the inns where it is found are his special hunting ground we call him the inspector I bore it bore it like a man this agonizing witticism and nothing could be sweeter than my temper till the ghost began some most provoking criticism cooks need not be indulged in waste yet still you'd better teach them dishes should have some sort of taste pray wire all the crew it's placed where nobody can reach them that man of yours will never earn his living as a waiter is that queer thing supposed to burn it's far too dismal of concern to call a moderator the duck was tender but the peas were very much too old and just remember if you please the next time you have toasted cheese don't let them send it cold you'll find the bread improves I think by getting better flour and have you anything to drink looks a little less liking and isn't quite so sour then peering round with curious eyes he muttered goodness gracious and so went on to criticize your room's an inconvenient size it's neither snug nor spacious that narrow window I expect serves but to let the dust in but please said I to recollect it was fashioned by an architect who pinned his faith on a raskin I don't care who he was or on whom he pinned his faith constructed by whatever law so poor a job I never saw as I'm a living rave what a remarkable cigar how much are they a dozen I growled no matter what they are you're getting as familiar as if you were my cousin now that's the thing I will not stand and so I tell you flat aha said he we're getting grand taking a bottle in his hand I'll soon arrange for that and here he took a careful aim and gaily cried here goes I tried to dodge it as it came but somehow called it all the same exactly on my nose and I remembered nothing more that I can clearly fix till I was sitting on the floor repeating two and five or four but five and two are six what really passed I never learned nor guessed I only know that one at last my sense returned the lamp neglected dimly burned the fire was getting low through driving mists I seem to see a thing that smirked and smiled and found that he was giving me a lesson in biography as if I were a child Canto for his nurture oh when I was a little ghost a merry time had we each seated on his favorite post we chumped and shored the buttered toast they gave us for our tea that story is in print I cried don't say it's not because it's known as well as Bradshaw's guide the ghost uneasily replied he hardly thought it was it's not in nursery rhymes and yet I almost think it is three little ghostesses were set on postesses you know and ate their buttered toastesses I have the book so if you doubt it I turned to search the shelf don't stir he cried we'll do without it I now remember all about it I wrote the thing myself it came out in a monthly or at least my agent said it did some literary swell who saw it thought it seemed adapted for the magazine he edited my father was a brownie sir my mother was a fairy the notion had occurred to her the children would be happier if they were taught to fairy the notion soon became a craze and when it once began she brought us all out in different ways one was a pixie two a phase another was a banshee the fetch and kelpie went to school and gave a lot of trouble next came a poltergeist and Gawd and then two trolls which broke the rule a goblin and a double if that's a snuff box on the shelf he added with a yawn I'll take a pinch next came an elf and then a phantom that's myself and last a leprechaun one day some spectres charged to call dressed in the usual white I stood and watched them in the hall and couldn't make them out at all they seemed so strange a sight I wondered what on earth they were that looked all head and sack but mother told me not to stare and then she twitched me by the hair and punched me in the back since then I've often wished that I'd been respectable but what's the use he heaved aside they are the ghost nobility and look on us with scorn my phantom life was soon begun when I was barely six I went out with an older one and just at first I thought it fun and learned a lot of tricks I've haunted dungeons castles towers wherever I was sent I've often sat in a howl for hours dressed to the skin with driving showers upon a battlement it's quite old fashioned now to groan when you begin to speak this is the newest thing in tome and here it chilled me to the bone he gave an awful squeak perhaps he added to your ear that sounds like an easy thing try it yourself my little dear it took me something like a year with constant practicing and when you've learned to squeak my man and caught the double sob you're pretty much where you began just try and gibber if you can that's something like a job I've tried it and can only say I'm sure you couldn't do it even if you practiced nice and day unless you have a turn that way and natural ingenuity Shakespeare I think it is who treats of ghosts in days of old who gibbered in the Roman streets dressed if you recollect any sheets I must have found it cold I've often spent ten pounds on stuff in dressing as a double but though it answers as a path it never has effect enough to make it worth the trouble Long bills soon quenched the little first I had for being funny the setting up is always worst such heaps of things you want at first one must be made of money for instance take a haunted tower with skull, cross bones and sheet blue lights to burn say two an hour condensing lens of extra power and set of chains complete what with the things you have to hire the fitting on the robe and testing all the coloured fire the outfit of itself would tire the patience of a job and then there's Sophie Stidious the haunted house committee I've often known the maker Fuss because a ghost was French or Russ or even from the city some dialects are objected to for one the Irish Brogies and then for all you have to do one pound a week they offer you and find yourself in bogies canto five bickermint don't they consult the victims though I said they should by rights give them a chance because you know the tastes of people differ so especially in sprites the phantom shook his head and smiled consult them not a bit to drive one wild to satisfy one single child there'd be no ends to it of course you can't leave children free said I to pick and choose but in the case of men like me I think my host might fairly be allowed to state his views he said it really wouldn't pay folks are so full of fancies we visit for a single day and whether then we go or stay depends on circumstances and though we don't consult my host before the things arranged still if he often quits his post or is not a well-managed ghost then you can have him changed but if the hosts are men like you I'm in a man of sense and if the house is not too new why what is that said I to do with ghosts convenience a new house does not suit you know it's such a job to trim it but after 20 years or so the wainscottings begin to go so 20 is the limit to trim was not a phrase I could remember having heard perhaps I said you'll be so good as tell me what is understood exactly by that word it means the loosening all the doors the ghost replied and laughed it means the drilling holes by scores in all the skirting boards and floors to make a thorough draft you'll sometimes find that one or two are all you really need so let the wind come whistling through but here there'll be a lot to do I faintly gasped indeed if I'd been rather later I'll be bound I added trying most unsuccessfully to smile you'd have been busy all this while trimming and beautifying why no said he perhaps I should have stayed another minute but still no ghost that's any good without an introduction would have ventured to begin it the proper thing as you were late was certainly to go but with the roads in such a state I got the nightmares leave to wait for half an hour or so who's the nightmare I cried instead of answering my question well if you don't know that he said either you never go to bed or you've a grand digestion he goes about and sits on folk but he too much at night his duties are to pinch and poke and squeeze them till they nearly choke I said it serves them right and focus up on things like these he muttered eggs and bacon lobster and duck and toasted cheese if I don't get an awful squeeze I'm very much mistaken he is immensely fat and so well suits the occupation in point of fact if you must know we used to call him years ago the mayor and corporation the day he was elected mayor I know that every sprite meant to vote for me but did not dare he was so frantic with despair and furious with excitement when it was over for a win he ran to tell the king and being the reverse of slim a two mile trot was not for him a very easy thing so to reward him for his run as it was baking hot and he was over twenty stone the king proceeded half in fun to night him on the spot it was a great liberty to take I fired up like a rocket he did it just for punning's sake a man says Johnson that would make a pun would pick a pocket a man said he is not a king I argued for a while and did my best to prove the thing the phantom merely listening with a contemptuous smile at last when breath and patience spent I had recourse to smoking your aim he said is excellent but when you call it argument of course you're only joking stung by his cold and snaky eye I roused myself at length to say at least I do defy the various skeptic to deny that union is strength that's true enough said he yet stay I listened in all meekness union is strength I'm bound to say in fact the things as clear as day but onions are a weakness as one who strives a hill to climb who never climbed before who finds it in a little time grow every moment less sublime and votes the thing or bore yet having once begun to try there's not dessert his quest but climbing ever keeps his eye on one small hut against the sky wherein he hopes to rest who climbed till no event foresus spent with many a puff and pant who still as rises the ascent in language grows more violent although in breath more scant who climbing gains at length the place that crowns the upward track and entering with unsteady pace receives a buffet in the face that lands him on his back and fills himself like one in sleep glides swiftly down again a helpless weight from steep to steep to with a headlong giddy sweep he drops upon the plane so I that had resolved to bring conviction to a ghost and found it quite a different thing from any human arguing yet dared not quit my post but keeping still the end in view to which I hoped to come I strove to prove the matter true by putting everything I knew into an axiom commencing every single phrase with therefore or because I blindly reeled a hundred ways about the syllogistic maze unconscious where I was quoth he clapped trap don't bluster anymore now do be cool and take a nap such a ridiculous old chap was never seen before you're like a man I used to meet who got one day so furious in arguing the simple heat scorched both his slippers off his feet I said that's very curious well it is curious I agree and sounds perhaps like fibs but still it's true as true can be as sure as your name's tibs said he I said my name's not tibs not tibs he cried his tone became a shade or two less hearty why no said I my proper name is tibits tibits are the same why then you're not the party with that he struck the border blow shivered half the glasses why couldn't you have told me so three quarters of an hour ago you prince of all the asses to walk four miles through mud and rain to spend the night in smoking and then to find that it's in vain and I have to do it all again it's really too provoking don't talk he cried as I began too much of some excuse who can have patience with a man that's got no more discretion than an idiotic goose to keep me waiting here instead of telling me at once that this was not the house he said there that will do be off to bed don't gape like that you dance it's very fine to throw the blame on me in such a fashion why didn't you inquire my name the very minute that you came my answer in a passion of course it worries you a bit to come so far on foot but how was I to blame for it well well said he I must admit that isn't badly put and certainly you've given me the best of wine and vitul excuse my violence said he but accidents like this you see they put one out a little because my fault after all I find shake hands I'll turn it top the name was hardly to my mind but has no doubt he meant it kind I let the matter drop good night I'll turn it top good night when I'm gone perhaps they'll send you some inferior sprite who'll keep you in a constant fright and spoil your soundly snaps telling me all stands no sort of trick then if he leers and chuckles you just be handy with a stick mind that it's pretty hard and thick and wrap him on the knuckles then carelessly remark old coon perhaps you're not aware but if you don't behave you'll soon be chuckling to another tune and so you'd best take care that's the right way to cure a sprite of such like goings on but gracious me it's getting light good night I'll turn it top good night and nod and he was gone canto seven sad savernance what's this I pondered have I slept or can I have been drinking but soon a gentler feeling crept upon me and I sat and wept an hour or so like winking no need for bones to hurry so I saw in fact I doubt if it was worth his while to go and to his tibs I'd like to know to make such work about if tibs is anything like me it's possible he won't be over pleased to be dropped in upon at half past three after he's snug in bed and if bones plagues him anyhow squeaking and all the rest of it as he was doing here just now I prophesy there'll be a row and tibs will have the best of it and as my tears could never bring the friendly phantom back it seemed to me the proper thing to mix another glass and sing the following coronac and art thou gone beloved ghost best of familiars nay then farewell my duckling roast farewell farewell my tea and toast my mere shawm and cigars the hues of life are dull and grey the sweets of life insipid when thou my charmer art away old brick or rather let me say old parallella pipid instead of singing verse the third I ceased abruptly rather but after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd to try it any farther so with a yawn I went my way to seek the welcome downy and slept and dreamed till break of day of poltergeist and fetch and fey and leprechaun and brownie for years I've not been visited by any kind of sprite yet still they echo in my head those parting words so kindly said I'll turn up top good night End of Fantasmagoria by Lewis Carroll The Phantom Doxson of W Street London West by Elliot O'Donnell This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Boulonna Times The Phantom Doxson of W Street London West In Letter No. 1 My Correspondent writes Though I am by no means overindulgent to dogs the letter generally greet me very effusively and it would seem that there is something in my individuality that is peculiarly attractive to them. This being so I was not greatly surprised one day when in the immediate neighbourhood of X Street to find myself persistently followed by a rough-haired Doxson wearing a gaudy yellow collar I tried to scare it away by shaking my sunshade at it for no purpose. It came resolutely on and I was beginning to despair of getting rid of it when I came to X Street where my husband once practised as an occulist. There it suddenly altered its tactics and instead of keeping at my heels became my conductor forging slowly ahead with a gliding motion that both puzzled and fascinated me. I furthermore observed the nature. It was not a wit less than 90 degrees in the shade. The legs and stomach of the Doxson were covered with mud and dripping with water. When it came to No. 90 it halted and veering swiftly around eyed me in the strangest manner just as if it had some secret it was bursting to disclose. It remained in this attitude until I was within no more when to my unlimited amazement it absolutely vanished, melted away into thin air. The iron gate leading to the area was closed so that there was nowhere for it to have hidden. And besides I was almost bending over it at the time as I wanted to read the name on its collar. There being no one near at hand I could not obtain a second opinion and so came away wondering whether what I had seen was actually a phantasm or a mere hallucination. No. 90 I might add, judging by the brass plate on the door, was inhabited by a doctor with an unpronounceable foreign name, etc. etc. I think one cannot help attaching a great deal of importance to what this lady says as her language is strictly moderate throughout and because she does not seem to have been biased by any special views on the subject of animal futurity. Correspondent No. 2 who, by the way, is a total stranger to the writer whose letter I have just quoted is candidly devoted to dogs regarding them as in every way on par with, if not actually superior to, most human beings. Still notwithstanding this partiality and consequent profusion of terms of endearment which will doubtless prove somewhat nauseating to many, her letter is, in my opinion, valuable, because it not only refers to the phenomenon I have mentioned, but to a certain extent furnishes a reason for its occurrence. The lady writes as follows, I once had a rough-haired dachshund, Robert, whom I loved devotedly. We were living at the time near H Street which always had a particular attraction for dear Robert, who I am now obliged to confess had rather too much liberty. More indeed than eventually proved good for him. The servants complained that Robert ruled the house and I believe what they said was true for my sister and I idolized him, giving him the very best of everything and never having the heart to refuse him anything he wanted. You will probably scarcely credit it, but I have sat up all night nursing him when he had a cold and was otherwise indisposed. Can you therefore imagine my feelings when my darling was absent one day from dinner? Such a thing had never happened before for, fond of morning constitutionals as poor Robert was, he was always the soul of punctuality at mealtimes. Neither my sister nor I would hear of eating anything. Whilst he was missing, not a morsel did we touch, but slipping on our hats and bidding the servants to do the same, we scoured the neighbourhood instead. The afternoon passed without any sign of Robert, and when bedtime came he always slept in our room and still no signs of our pet. I thought we should both have gone mad. Of course we advertised selecting the most popular and, accordingly, the most likely papers, and we resorted to other mediums, too. Our darling little Robert was irrevocably, irredeemably lost. For days we were utterly inconsolable, doing nothing but mope, morning, noon, and night. I cannot tell you how for long we felt, nor how long we should have remained in that state, but for an instant which, although revealing the terrible manner of his death, gave us sure we were not parted from him for all time, but would meet again in the great hereafter. It happened in this wise. I was walking along W. Street one evening, when, to my intense joy and surprise, I suddenly saw my darling standing on the pavement a few feet ahead of me, regarding me intently from out of his pathetic brown eyes. A sensation of extreme coldness now stole over me, and I noticed, with something akin to shock, that, in spite of the hot, dry weather, Robert looked as if he had been in the rain for hours. He wore the bright yellow collar I had bought him shortly before his disappearance, so that had there been any doubt as to his identity that would have removed it instantly. On my calling to him he turned quickly round, and with a slight gesture of the head as if bidding me to follow, he glided forward. My natural impulse was to run after him, pick him up and smother him with kisses, but try as hard as I could. I could not diminish the distance between us, although he never appeared to alter his pace. I was quite out of breath by the time we reached H. Street, where, to my surprise, he stopped at number ninety, and, turning round again, gazed at me in the most beseeching manner. I can't describe that look. Suffice it to say that no human eyes could have been more expressive. But of what beyond the most profound love and sorrow I cannot, I dare not, attempt to state. I have pondered upon it through the whole of a mid-summer night, but not even the severest of my mental efforts have enabled me to solve it to my satisfaction. Could I but do that till I should have fathomed the greatest of all mysteries, the mystery of life and death? I do not know for how long we stood there looking at one another. It may have been minutes, or hours, or again, but a few paltry seconds. He took the initiative from me, for, as I leaped forward to raise him in my arms, he glided through the stone steps into the area. Convinced now that I beheld was Robert's apparition, I determined to see the strange affair through to the bitter end, and, entering the gate, I also went down into the area. The phantom had come to an abrupt halt by the side of a low wooden box, and as I foolishly made an abortive attempt to reach it with my hand it vanished instantaneously. I searched the area thoroughly, and it was assured that there was no save by the steps I had just ascended, and no hole, nor nook, nor cranny where anything the size of Robert could be completely hidden from sight. What did it all mean? Ah, I knew Robert had always had a weakness for exploring areas, especially in H Street, and in the box where his wreath disappeared I aspired a piece of raw meat. Now there are ways in which a piece of raw meat may lie without arousing suspicion, but the position of this morsel strangely suggested that it had been placed there carefully, and for assuredly no other purpose than to entice stray animals. Resolving to interrogate the owner of the house on the subject, I wrapped at the front door, but was informed by the man's servant, obviously a German, that his master never saw anyone without an appointment. I then did a very unwise thing. I explained the purpose of my visit to this man, who not only denied any knowledge of my dog, but declared the meat must have been thrown into the area by some passerby. No one in this house throw away good meat like that, he explained. We eat all we can get here. We have nothing for the animals. Please go away at once, or we'll be very angry. He's done no nonsense from anyone. And as I had no alternative, for after all who would regard a ghost in the light of evidence. I had to obey. I found out, however, from a medical friend that number ninety was teneted by Mr. K. an Anglo-German who was deemed a very clever fellow at a certain London hospital where he was often occupied in vivisection. I daresay, my friend went on to remark, K. does a little vivisecting in his private surgery by way of practice. And, well, you see, these foreign chaps are not so squeamish in some respects as we are. But can't he be stopped? I asked. It is horrible, monstrous, that he should be allowed to murder our pets. I was certain that he has, was the reply. You only suppose so from what you say you saw. And evidence of that immaterial nature is no evidence at all. No, you can do nothing except to be extra careful in future. And if you have another dog, make him steer clear of number ninety H Street. I was sensible enough to see that he was right and the matter dropped. However, namely that there were no more pieces of meat temptingly displayed in the box, so it is just possible K. got wind of my inquiries and thought it policy to desist from his nefarious practices. Poor Robert to think of him suffering such a cruel and ignominious death and my being powerless to avenge it. Surely if vivisection is really necessary and the welfare of mankind cannot be advanced by any less barber's system, why not operate on creatures less deserving of our love and pity than dogs, on creatures which, whilst being nearer allied to man in physiology and anatomy, are at the same time far below the level of brute creation in character and disposition. For example, and cowardly street ruffians and one might reasonably add on all those pseudo-humanitarians who, by their constant petitions to parliament for the abolition of the lash, encourage every form of black-gardism and bestiality. This concludes the letter of correspondent number two and with the sentiment and the closing paragraphs I must say I heartily agree. Only I should like to add a few more people to the list. One other case of haunting of this type is taken from my same work. One old Halloween wrote a Mrs. Sebwim I was staying with some friends in Hampstead and we amused ourselves by working spells to commemorate the night. There is one spell in which one walks alone down a path sowing hemp seed and repeating some fantastic words when one is supposed to see those that are destined to come into one's life in the near future. Eager to put the spell to the test I went into the garden by myself and, walking boldly along a path bordered on each side by evergreens sprinkled hemp seed lavishly. Nothing happening I was about to desist when suddenly I heard a pattering on the gravel and turning round I beheld an ugly little black-and-tan mong-rule running towards me wagging its stumpy tail not at all prepossessed with the creature for my own dogs are purebred and thinking it must have strayed into the grounds I was about to drive it out and had put down my hand to prevent it jumping on my dress when, to my astonishment, it had vanished. It literally melted away into fine air beneath my very eyes not knowing what to make of the incident but feeling inclined to attribute it to a trick of the imagination I rejoined my friends I did not tell them what had happened although I made a memorandum of it in one of my innumerable notebooks within six months of this incident I was greatly astonished to find a dog corresponding with the one I have just described running about on the lawn of my house in Bath how the animal got there was a complete mystery and what is stranger still it seemed to recognize me for it rushed towards me frantically wagging its diminutive tail I had not the heart to turn it away and as it seemed quite homeless and so the forlorn little mong-rule was permitted to make its home in my house and a very happy home it proved to be for three years all went well and then the end came swiftly and unexpectedly I was in Blackheath at the time and the mong-rule was in Bath it was all Halloween but there was no hemp seed sowing for no one in the house but myself took the slightest interest in anything pertaining to the super-physical or mystic eleven o'clock came and I retired to rest my bed being one of those antique four posters hung with curtains that shined crimson in the ruddy glow of a cheerful fire all my preparations complete I had pulled back the hangings and it was about to slip in between the sheets when, to my unbounded amazement what should I see sitting on the counter-pan but the black-and-town mong-rule it was he right enough there could not be another such ugly dog though unlike his usual self he evinced no demonstrations of joy on the contrary he appeared downright in my house and I had no idea on the contrary he appeared downright miserable his ears hung his mouth dropped and his bleared little eyes were watery and sad greatly perplexed if not alarmed at so extraordinary a phenomenon I nevertheless felt constrained to put out my hand to comfort him when, as I had half-anticipated he immediately vanished two days later I received a letter from Bath a post-rip I read that the mong-rule we never called it by any other name had been run over and killed by a motor the accident occurring on all Halloween about eleven o'clock of course my sister wrote, you won't mind very much it was so extremely ugly and, well we were only too glad it was none of the other dogs but my sister was wrong for notwithstanding its unsightly appearance and hopeless lack of breed I had grown to like that little black-and-tan more than any of my rare-and-choice pets End of The Phantom Doxon of W Street London West by Elliot O'Donnell