Chapter II: Introduction: A Hypnotist on Wheels (1)

Most men have a hobby of some kind, and I am certainly no exception to the general rule. Some love boating; some painting; others carving, angling, walking, shooting, or one of a hundred other diversions. The hobbies of noted men would fill a goodly volume--thus Tosti is fond of upholstering; Gladstone of tree-felling; the Sultan of Turkey is an amateur carpenter; the Shah of Persia photographs everything he can aim his lens at; the late Lord R. Churchill collected the teeth of criminals; H.R.H. the Princess of Wales has a passion for specimens of lace; and so on.

Now I love none of these pursuits, but will confess at once that my delight is _a good story_; something out of the usual rut of everyday fiction; something fresh, stimulating, racy; and to gratify my hobby I have been for many years a most voluminous reader.

No scientific works for me, thank you; no dreary, three-volume, society novels; give me good, sterling works of _fiction_--neither namby-pamby on the one hand, nor revoltingly realistic on the other--but sound, entertaining, well-worked-out fiction.

Generally speaking, my experience of writers is disappointing. One soon finds out their style of working, and after reading a short way into a story, the _dénouement_ can frequently be correctly conjectured. Some authors are aware of this, and purposely lead their readers upon a wrong scent quite up to the penultimate chapter, and then suddenly surprise them by reversing their preconceived idea of the final disposition of the characters represented. This is extremely puzzling to that section of lady readers who “just glance at the last chapter” before wading through the volume, and must be extremely tantalizing to them as well.

Now it so happens that I have little else to do in life but to obey my own sweet will; no wife have I, and but few relations, and as to them, I steadfastly believe there is a great deal of truth in the aphorism, “relatives are best apart.” So strongly am I convinced of this, that I foster a fondness for peregrinating, solitarily, over the length and breadth of England, and even for making occasional incursions into Scotland or Wales.

My income is small but ample--a cosy £500 a year--upon which I can manage in comfort, especially as I have adopted a novel system of living; novel, not because it has not been carried out to a certain extent before, but because I have made a permanent institution of it; I am a dweller in a caravan, not merely during the pleasant summer months, but _à la_ gipsy, all the year round; and, what is more, I thoroughly enjoy my solitary life on wheels. I have no rates or taxes to pay, and if I have troublesome neighbours I move; in fact I am a progressive man, I am _always_ on the move.

My horse and I get on admirably together: in the summer he sleeps in meadow or lane, on heath or common, while I sling my hammock in my roomy van; but in the winter I stable my steed at an inn, and, as for myself, laugh as I hear the snow-laden wind rasping vainly at the woodwork and windows of my domicile. I am snug and secure from any weather that may assail me; and with my pipe, my dog, and my books, am as comfortable and free as the Queen in her Castle at Windsor.

But all this is not my very particular _hobby_; it is simply my mode of living, and a free, healthy, Bohemian life it is.

As I have before remarked, I have a fondness for a good story; and I have a peculiar way of securing that article. I do not go to a book-shelf, get down a volume, and read a cut-and-dried version of some adventure or incident--frequently spoiled by the opinions of the writer, thrust willy-nilly upon the unfortunate reader--but I go straight to the fountain-head--to the hero or chief participator in the scenes and adventures described--and so get my story first-hand, _vivâ voce_, from the lips of the living narrator.

In disclosing how I succeed in this I must first make a confession; then my _modus operandi_ will be at once plain.

I am a hypnotist.

Not a professional, séance-giving operator. I simply took the subject up as one would any other scientific pursuit, such as geology, botany, or electricity, and in a couple of years became remarkably expert in the fascinating diversion. I say _diversion_ purposely, as it _is_ my diversion, wherever I wander during my nomadic life.

When a lad I read, and was enchanted with the wonderful stories of _The Thousand and One Tales, or Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_, and now that I have arrived at years of sober discretion, I look upon it as my undoubted right to have a story told to me by every person I may induce to share the hospitality of my caravan.

The Sultan Schahriyar was told a thousand and one tales by his beautiful young bride Shahrazad, but as I have no beautiful young consort to spin me nightly yarns--which, coming from one brain, must necessarily have had a sameness--I have recourse to persons I meet in my peregrinations, who, after an enjoyable meal and a pipe, allow me, as a favour, to hypnotize them. The trance state having been induced in a very brief time, I then exert my will-force, and request my subject to tell me a story of anything remarkable that has happened in his experience, or with which he was connected. By this means I have listened to nearly as many recitals as Schahriyar himself; some good, some commonplace, some not worth listening to; while a few of them struck me as being very remarkable and quite out of the ordinary run of book stories. It is a selection from these which I have collected in this volume.

I must point out that in giving publicity to these stories I do not betray any trust; as, apart from having the sanction of my guests, or, as some would term them, victims--I have so altered names, places, and dates as to make the individuality of the narrators quite secure from discovery and consequent annoyance.

It may be asked, “Why do you go to the trouble of hypnotizing your guests, when they would probably tell you a story without being placed under mesmeric control?”

Now I am quite aware that “The Ancient Mariner” “stopped one of three,” because the said one was _unwilling_, and therefore had to be fixed with his “glittering eye,” but _my_ guests are _willing_ ones. They would probably, out of courtesy to me, as host, tell me a story in a sociable manner enough, but then, would they tell me the whole truth? Would they not be liable to gloss over certain incidents, to suppress others, and to add (for the sake of embellishment) many little touches, which, however interesting and probable, might not be strictly veracious?

Probably they would; and loving as I do to hear a _true_ story, I always prefer to hypnotize my guest, who then gives me the facts just as they come uppermost in his mind, and his narration is free from flourishes or any great amount of extraneous or interpolated matter.

I do not know that I have anything else of a personal nature to place before the reader, but will commence the first story after I have premised it by a few words upon the narrator.

Dr. Nosidy is what many persons would term “a genius deranged.” It must, however, be remembered, that frequently only a very thin partition divides the genius from the madman, and one can recall the names of many great geniuses, who in their day were looked upon rather as lunatics than as shining lights of the world. The Doctor, by his personal appearance and conversation, did not in the least impress me with the idea that he was suffering from any mental aberration, but I must admit his remarkable story gave me grounds for surmising, that he was either a man far in advance of the times, or else one who would, at no distant period, be likely to end his career under lock and key.

He was a small man with a bald head, round the circumference of which grew a fringe of curly grey hair. His eyes were dark and sparkling, his nose large and aquiline, and his mouth broad and thin, indicative of volubility and power, with perhaps some acerbity of temper.

When I explained to him my hypnotic powers he fell in with my humour at once, and in a few minutes, being placed in the trance state, commenced the following curious recital, which I will call “The Strange Discovery of Doctor Nosidy.”

I.

THE STRANGE DISCOVERY OF DOCTOR NOSIDY.

It is said proverbially, and I am quite aware of the fact, that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and that sharp tools should not be entrusted to the hands of unskilled persons; and it is because some may depreciate my knowledge, and class me among those to whom sharp tools are a danger, both to themselves and the community at large, that I have not placed my discovery before the scientific world.

I have no particular ambition to pose as a great genius or inventor; the things which I have discovered are so simple, that anybody else, following the same line of thought, would probably have stumbled upon the same truths. That my discoveries, placed in the hands of profane or frivolous persons, would be fraught with many and great evils I do not deny, and it is for this consideration that I refrain from giving my _exact_ modus operandi in this narrative.

As will be seen from a perusal of this short recital, but little further thought and elaboration are required to place my experiments among the most astounding of this most marvellous age of discovery and invention.

It is a trite expression we make use of when we say that “Electricity is in its infancy.” Of course it is; it is but in its swaddling clothes: but, by and by, it will grow such a powerful fellow as to claim by right the kingship of the whole mechanical and motive world.

Now to my mind the two greatest forces in the universe are brain power (or intellect) and electricity; and the time is rapidly approaching when these two subtle energies shall govern or control nearly everything under the sun. My friends infer that if I had a little more brain force I should not take such absurd views of these two great _Souls of Man and Motion_, as I am pleased to term intellect and electricity. That I am not so distraught as my friends are pleased to suppose, may be gathered from the outcome of those experiments which I am now about to explain, so far at least as that can be done without actually divulging the particular secrets which, for the present, I wish to withhold, even from the great _savants_ of this scientific epoch. I am afraid, however, that some reader of these lines will, if he be of a keen, searching, inventive temperament, come in a short time very near the borders of that discovery which it has taken me a dozen years to experiment upon, and place in its present unfinished form.

Even when I was a lad I was a great reader and literary delver after things which were in any way obscure, unfinished, or apparently unfathomable; and among the many theories I formed upon subjects of which the world had written much, and talked more, without advancing any nearer to their solution, was an idea regarding the soul of man!

I may say in a few words, without giving the precise chain of thought I employed, that my idea of man’s soul was--that it was nothing more nor less than his _brain_; for is not that the very spirit, essence, conscience, reason, and vital principle of man?

Certainly: for in what degree can even a man’s heart compare with his brain in the supremacy it asserts over his corporeal body? It is true that the heart is essential to him, and has a great work to perform, and can do it without help from his brain, even while the body and brain sleep; but, after all, it is a mere beautiful machine--a mechanical, monotonous slave, with nothing more to recommend it to notice than its faithfulness to its hidden duty.

Now let me affirm at once that the brain _is_ the soul, and when you acquiesce in this, you will see more clearly how it is worked out as a substantial truth in my wonderful experiments, or rather, as their wonderful _result_; experiments, which after all were but my intellectual knowledge reduced to a reasonable system.

Very well. I commenced my experiments with this theory properly worked out in my own mind, but not substantiated with positive proof, _that the soul and the brain were synonymous_.

Now the soul never dies--consequently the brain never dies! It decays, and resolves itself into its constituent atoms, but it leaves behind it what I will term _brain-ether_, which is absolutely indestructible and immortal, and consequently lasts through all time.

Then came the thought--“If the brain-ether exists, where shall I find it?” I wanted to know this one thing; then I could work out the ideas I had in my mind, following them up with experiments to prove the correctness of my premises.

Just think for a few moments of the vast encyclopædia of knowledge stored in a human brain of ordinary calibre; think of the scenes, the faces, the technical knowledge, the music, the skill, and the secrets that human brain contains, and which, when the body decays, are turned into ethereal memories--memories _not lost_, but stored up in the brain-ether for ever.

Now it occurred to me, that if I could only ascertain what became of this brain-ether as the body decayed, that I might secure some of it, and with the help of modern scientific apparatus, so far capture its treasury of knowledge as to make that latent knowledge of incalculable service to mankind.

For many weeks I thought of places likely to be the earthly resting-place of what I considered to be the fugitive brain-ether, and, like every other mortal who has essayed the same intellectual feat, I failed because I had the words, “The soul has fled,” ever present in my mind.

Naturally, when a human being dies, if one says, “His soul has fled,” the person spoken to directly assumes that the soul has left the body, and gone no one knows whither. But, being scientifically artful, I took an opposite and antagonistic view of the usually accepted answer, and said to myself:

“Now suppose the soul has not fled, but is still present in the cranium in the form of brain-ether.”

This startling hypothesis I took and worked upon. Forsaking the common theory, I resolved to see if I could not by some means discover the brain-ether, which I was morally certain existed _somewhere_, and which I quite believed was as likely, or more likely, to be found in its ordinary resting-place--the cranium--as elsewhere.

A recently deceased body or head was of no service to me to experimentalize upon, as the spirit or essential ether would not have become free till the disintegration of the pulpy matter of the brain was complete. What I wanted was a skeleton, or even a skull, which had neither been opened nor tampered with; and having no medical friends I was at a loss to know how I could supply my want, when a lucky accident gave me just what I required.

One day I was walking through Gower Street, London, when whom should I run against but my old friend Stairs. Stairs is an Egyptologist, great at reading hieroglyphics and cuneiform writing. Not having seen each other for two years, we naturally strolled into the Horseshoe Hotel to finish our chat in comfort, and to lubricate our throats, which have a wonderful knack of becoming dry when their owners meet old friends.

Stairs had been away for fifteen months in Egypt searching for any curious things having a commercial value in England. During his wanderings in the country of the Pharaohs, he had purchased a large number of curios, stones, amulets, rings, sarcophagi, and mummies, which he was now endeavouring to dispose of to the trustees of the British Museum.

After I had heard many of his adventures, it became his turn to inquire how I was employing myself, and this finally led to my explaining to Stairs all about my theory of the soul. Of course, being ignorant of the matter, he simply laughed, and suggested that I had better have one of his mummies to experiment upon!

Why not?

Just the very thing; what could be better than an ancient, unrolled mummy, some three thousand years old?

I was positively delighted; and in furtherance of my fancy he handed me his card, on the understanding that I was to proceed to his house, and make a selection of any mummy I thought would suit my purpose, take it home with me for a month to experiment upon, and at the end of that time return it to him.

That very evening I went to my friend’s house in Gordon Square with a small covered van, and brought my precious Egyptian away, thankful to old Stairs for his kindly consideration. Stairs was off to Italy for a month, and I had his permission to do what I liked with the mummy, so long as I did not spoil its commercial value.

When the defunct Egyptian was safely deposited in my study I could have hugged him for very joy, but refrained from the embrace as he smelt a trifle musty.

I, Doctor Nosidy, scientist, mesmerist, thought-reader, and electrician, felt that evening that I stood upon the threshold of some grand discovery. The thought thrilled me as it did Columbus when he came in sight of the long-sought land, or Bernard Palissy when he discovered the true mode of firing his beautiful pottery-ware, or Galileo when he discovered the movement of the earth. I felt the sensations of these and other discoverers rolled into one; moreover, it was my conviction that I was about to find something by the side of which their discoveries would appear insignificant indeed.

Setting my apparatus in order, I commenced work by unrolling the head of the mummy; carefully stripping off the multitudinous layers of cerecloth, which were permeated quite through with a dark, brittle gum or resin of some kind. By and by I came to the leathery and gum-covered visage, wrinkled, emaciated, and black with the dry atmosphere of thirty centuries.

Dark curly hair still adhered to the skull, and was not so brittle but that, after bathing the compressed locks, I could lift them with the blade of a spatula quite away from the cranium without damage. The whole head was a very fine one--the nose prominent and hawk-like, the eyes cavernous, and the mouth excessively broad and grinning; the lips were so dried and compressed that they were flat with the face. The teeth were still white and glossy, and the entire absence of any signs of decay proclaimed the fact that the owner was young at his decease.

All these features I noticed as I worked away upon my subject, and having at length uncovered the whole head, I made a small hole through the apex of the cranium with a brad-awl. This done, I inserted, into the space once occupied by the brain, the ends of the wires connected with a certain electric instrument. Into the mouthpiece of the machine I spoke, asking,

“Do you hear me?”

I listened, but of course no reply came.

How could it?

I had been much too eager to commence my work, and of a certainty, this my first attempt could but end in one way--in absolute failure, and that from three causes.

1st. The brain of a deceased Egyptian was removed through the nostrils when the embalming took place.

2nd. Even if the brain-ether still tenanted the cranium the lips could form no answer to my query, as they were so dry and parched as to have no power of movement.

3rd. If the conditions of brain and lips were favourable, and I really obtained a sound, it would certainly be in the dead Egyptian tongue, which to me would be quite unintelligible. What should I do?

My defunct monarch, or whoever he might be, was suddenly transformed into a useless incumbrance, instead of a scientific help.

Instead of hugging him for joy I could now have beaten him as a scientific fraud.

There was nothing for it but to take a day or two and think the matter out in an intelligent and calm manner.

I did think it out; and on the third day had so far perfected my primal theory, that I resolved to give the mummy one more chance of communicating with a nineteenth-century scientist.

Starting with the assumption that the subject would have been dead from a few hours to a couple of days before the embalmers would commence their process, and that the brain being lifeless and cold, the spirit-ether might have escaped into its bony case and have remained in the skull after the actual brain-matter was abstracted by the cunning embalmer and his assistants,--I argued that it would be possible for me to communicate with this spirit-ether, which would still retain in an ethereal form the vast store of knowledge which the deceased had accumulated when on earth. In that spirit-ether would be indelibly written, as it were, a record of the whole life of the deceased, with all his cares and pleasures, knowledge of contemporary events, and the haunting memory of his sins.

Assuming, I say, that this record was present in an invisible, subtle form, how, even if I could communicate with the brain-ether, would it be possible to obtain a reply?

As I have said, I am a thought-reader, and my hope was that, if my query were understood by the soul (or brain-ether) of the mummy, I could, by the exercise of my peculiar function of reading thought, obtain a reply.

All seemed correct in theory, and to put it to the test, I, that very evening, opened communication with my ebony subject. One wire was inserted through the cranium and the other, instead of being attached to a sound receiver, I coiled several times around my own head!

Again I put the question “Do you hear me?”

Nothing at first transpired; but, on repeating the question several times, my brain became aware of the power of thought working in the dead skull, and this thought-voice gradually became coherent, until I could actually detect the vibration of certain words being formed, which were, however, not sufficiently distinct for me to understand.

My brain was quickly tired with the intense strain of sustained thought, and, lying down on the couch, I fell fast asleep, to dream of the land of the Pharaohs.

In my dream I seemed to hear people speaking to each other, and to see them going about their usual avocations. I appeared in my dream to be inside the shop of an Eastern hairdresser, where an Egyptian fop was having his hair curled and dressed for some evening function, possibly a ball or supper. The hairdresser and his young patron appeared to be cracking jokes in their native tongue, of which I could not understand a word, but still I laughed at their jokes as heartily as if I fathomed every quip they uttered. At length I laughed so loudly in my sleep at one of the barber’s witticisms, that I awoke to find tears of merriment streaming from my eyes.

My dream had solved part of the problem!

Of course the thought-words I had read, by means of the wire round my head, were in the _Egyptian_ tongue, hence the reason for my not understanding them.

Here was a dilemma!

However, I did not give up my mummy; for, although I could neither ask intelligible questions nor receive answers that I could understand, I obtained Egyptian _thoughts_ whenever I had a mind.

I kept the royal corpse for the allotted month, and then returned it in its deal case, with a letter of thanks to my friend in Gordon Square.

A dead subject was all very well, but a _dead language_ was beyond me.

So far my success was very encouraging. I had learnt, among other things, that the soul, or brain-ether, still tenants the skull after the substance of the brain is entirely dissipated--provided it has not been removed from the cavity before decay set in.

With strong hopes of better success, I now resolved to obtain an English skull and try my skill upon it.

During my peregrinations in the South of England the following week, I found myself in the neighbourhood of X---- Cathedral, and strolling, almost unthinkingly, into its grand interior, admired its decorations and memorials. It was late in the day, and as in the gathering gloaming I wandered round the solemn building, I found myself gazing upon some curious painted coffins containing the remains of certain of our Saxon kings. Gazing upon them I became fascinated, for they suggested another step towards the realization of my grand scheme.

As I stood before these sepulchres of the long dead, I am sorry to say the longing came into my mind to possess a skull from one of the decorated coffins; and presently the longing became so intense, that, like some villainous body-snatcher, I hid myself behind a stack of chairs in the nave, remaining there seated comfortably on a hassock till the great bell tolled forth the noon of night, when, coming forth from my hiding-place, I effected my ghoulish purpose, and secreted under my cape the cranium of a Saxon monarch.

The weary hours of the night lagged in their monotonous round, for I dared not sleep, fearing I might not awaken before the opening of the south door for the eight o’clock service; but my vigil was ended at last by the arrival of a gaping old man, who came to ring the bell calling early worshippers to the holy fane. The entry of several persons to the building gave me an opportunity of walking quickly out without attracting attention, but I can scarcely describe my feelings of shame, nor is there perhaps any need of doing so. Necessity, the noble mother of invention, had made a very criminal of me; but whatever loathing I had for myself was condoned by the fact, that what I was doing was for the sake of mankind at large; and although I had purloined the principal part of a royal personage, I could not look upon it as a theft, but merely as a loan from one who had no further use for his ancient head.

A few hours brought me again to the mighty metropolis, and I quickly set to work with my elaborate apparatus, but, alas! only to be the victim of another disappointment.

Although I could obtain certain mental sounds (if I may so term them), and could, by the aid of my thought-reading power, understand that words were being thought by the brain-ether in the monarch’s cranium, yet, unfortunately, to fathom their meaning was beyond me.

Pure Saxon was a language with which I was totally unacquainted!

Here was another stupid mistake of mine, of precisely the same nature as the one I made in my first experiment.

What could I do?

Very little.

I copied down, phonetically, a number of the words which the monarch was _thinking_, and showed them to a professor of Anglo-Saxon, but all he could do was to translate some of them into modern English, so giving a series of words without any sequence or connection whatever.

Angry with myself, and angry with the skull simply for being Saxon, and therefore not understandable, I took it in my hand, and, in my disappointment and rage, should doubtless have shattered it into fragments against the wall, but for the sudden ringing of my door bell, warning me of the arrival of a gentleman with whom I had an appointment.

When the interview was over my anger had ceased also, and that afternoon, with the skull in a bag, I took train for X----, and repaired to my stack of chairs in the cathedral. I hid myself again, like a felon, till the doors were closed, then restoring the skull uninjured to its resting-place, crept back to my hassock seat, and awaited the dawning.

I fell asleep, and I suppose snored, for, to my astonishment, I was awakened next morning by the verger, who, not believing my cock-and-bull story of having been shut in the cathedral while absorbed in the contemplation of the ancient structure and its interesting relics, haled me before a magistrate.

It was with difficulty I proved my identity, and doing so cost me all the loose cash I had about me in telegraphing to my friends, before the worthy magistrate would release me, although I had been twice searched to see if anything of value was secreted about my person.

Oh, science! what miseries thou hast for ages brought upon thy noblest sons! What sorrows; what disappointments; what troubles and trials, and alas, what terms of vile durance! I, being one of thy sons, have shared all these evils, though perhaps in a minor degree!

My failures, however, were not unmitigated: I had established the fact that brain-ether and brain-thought were present in skulls, whatever their nationality, and to whatever period they might belong; my failures were attributable principally to my lack of linguistic knowledge, a lack that might easily be remedied.

My business now became to seek a skull of a more modern period. I applied at a number of likely places, and at last was successful in obtaining a fine, large specimen, which had a clean and refined appearance. I paid but a small sum for it, and carried it home to my study in triumph. Surely at last I was on the road to the development of my pet project.

After dinner, all being quiet, I commenced experiments upon the skull, and having placed my apparatus in order, I asked my usual question:

“Who are you?”

“Sidney Smith,” came the reply.

Good gracious, I thought, can this be the great wit?

“You do not mean to say,” I asked, “that you are the great Sidney Smith?”

“I reckon you have just hit the right nail on the head,” was the immediate thought-reply.

What a piece of luck.

“Well, Mr. Smith, such men as you the world sees but too rarely; your name is still a household word among us, being constantly quoted as that of the brightest star of wit of your day.”

“Whip you mean?” came from the skull.

“No; I said _wit_; a jocular person, you know.”

“I ain’t no wit nor jocular person,” was the response, “not as I knows what ‘jocular’ is exactly, but if it is anything to do with a jockey it’s nothing to do with me, for I stood six feet four, and weighed seventeen stone. If you calls me a ‘whip’ instead of a ‘wit,’ there you are right, for I drove the York and Manchester coach for over twenty years.”

I found my subject very garrulous, very thick-headed, and very quarrelsome--a man of high stature but low breeding; one who knew nothing of any subjects but those of a horsey nature. One day our conversation became so warm, and such a string of bad language flooded the fellow’s brain-ether, that I had to disconnect my battery. I left the cranium for some days, thinking that the man’s temper would have cooled down, for I supposed that when I disconnected the electric wires the current of thought ceased; but when I applied the wires to my head, I found that the old store of abuse was still at work in the brain-ether of my giant subject, and the end of the matter was, that I smashed the beautiful skull into a thousand fragments against my study wall, thus dissipating the soul or brain-ether into space.

I did not regret the occurrence, for the fellow was most vituperative and impertinent whenever I wished to know anything of his family secrets or earthly career.

Still, when I think of it, I have a deal for which to thank that giant skull. It was during the fortnight that I possessed it that I, to a great extent, perfected my apparatus for Soul-Reading, Brain-Ether-Reviewing, Etherealized-Human-Record-Deciphering, or whatever men may term my discovery, for I have not yet invented a title for it myself.

I therefore thank that broken vase of humanity, though being broken, I cannot convey my thanks as I would wish, for there is no brain-ether left to convey it to.

Alas, poor giant!

Hundreds of skulls have come under my apparatus for examination during the past decade, and I possess facts that would make many great English families quake; facts asserted by ancestors’ souls--_and souls cannot lie_--of how titles and estates have been wrongfully obtained, and rightful heirs darkly put aside to favour other candidates.

I know of facts, suppressed in history, which, were I to reveal their dark catalogue of murders, conspiracies and political intrigues, would put a fresh interpretation upon the records of our country. But of what avail would the disclosure be to our present generation? The heart of man in the nineteenth century is, what it has been in all ages, “desperately wicked.”

On the other hand, it has been my good fortune to converse with kings and ambassadors, with men of learning, poets, statesmen, with artists and men of science, even with the great Isaac Newton himself, and am now in the position of being the best-informed man, upon past history and events, of any person in the world. Men say there is but a thin partition between a savant and a madman. I know better; I may be the former, but between me and madness a vast gap yawns, although my friends will have their little jibe at me. Great men ever had their traducers, and I, naturally, am no exception.

Of all those with whom I have chatted--and by my experiments I can converse with the spirit or soul of _any_ person, provided I have the skull to which I can attach my apparatus--there has not been one equal in intellectual capacity to Sir Isaac Newton, a most steady, solid man of scientific sense.

Now Newton’s idea of the brain and my own precisely coincide, and if I give _my_ notion upon the subject I give his also. Here it is.

The brain is an elaborate storehouse of knowledge of every kind. It contains a record of _all_ one has learned during one’s lifetime; I say _all_, because if a person has learned a thing and forgotten it, it must not be supposed that that thing has vanished from the brain; not so; it is faithfully recorded in the brain substance, though the mental faculties may not be strong enough to _reproduce_ the particular thing or theme when wanted.

Not only is everything once learnt retained by the brain, but it also contains a record of every _action_ of one’s life. All these actions and events are stored away in minute cells to the number of hundreds of thousands, and yet to the human eye they are not as visible as a pin’s point; in fact, they have no dimensions whatever.

Now, supposing this theory to be correct, can we not see (and I say it with great reverence) how easy the task of the Recording Angel must be; can we not imagine the celestial one reading the record of a man’s brain as easily as we poor mundane mortals can scan a book?

Are not many biblical texts elucidated by this theory; for instance, Ecclesiastes xii. 14; Matthew xii. 37; and Hebrews iv. 13?

But then the theory of the brain-ether, or the soul as some call it, goes further. I am of opinion that the soul is not _spirit_ but _matter_; matter of such infinitely minute particles as to be perfectly invisible to even the most powerful microscope yet made.

Let me explain my meaning more fully.

Just as there are differences in the bulk and solidity of various materials, so is there a vast difference in the tangibility, if I may so term it, of various bodies and substances.

Take a cubic foot of steel--matter beyond all doubt--and of what closely-compacted solidity and enormous density! Then take a cubic foot of smoke, that again is matter, but what immeasurable difference in density, tangibility, and even visibility there is in the two substances!

Then go a step further, and imagine a cubic foot of gas: it is invisible, intangible, and possesses but little density, yet it is _matter_, it is not spirit.

Now, seeing the vast difference between various matters, can we not believe that the brain, instead of being soul or spirit, may still be matter of such a rare and subtle quality that there is even more difference between it and gas, than between gas and a solid lump of steel or granite?

If you can follow that suggestion you have my theory; but having spoken of my theory I go no farther. Of what my apparatus consists I have merely hinted, not mentioning one or two of its principal conditions. My secret is of such vast importance that it would go a great way to revolutionize science, history, and even religion, and I dare not divulge it to the world at large. The more I think over the matter, the more convinced I am that my experiments have so lifted the veil of death, that I have stepped within the bounds of things which should be unknown to man.

I have passed the Rubicon of the supernatural!

I tremble at my own temerity.

I have now but one Gordian knot to sever. Shall my secret die with me, and so save the civilized world much anxiety, or shall I divulge it to a small coterie of the world’s greatest philosophers, and allow them to work upon and improve my ideas, so that they may benefit mankind, without revealing the secret power, which in profane hands would prove but a curse?

For the present the secret shall remain _mine alone_, but what I may decide to do with it in the future, who knows?

* * * * *

It is not every day that one has an opportunity of receiving a millionaire as a guest, and to have the privilege of hypnotizing one is a still rarer thing, yet both these experiences have been mine at one and the same time, and I will relate how it happened.

I was staying for a few days on the Cornish coast, and had drawn my van far on to the beach, by the side of a rivulet which, coming down from low neighbouring hills, murmured and tumbled along its rocky bed until it lost itself in the immeasurable sea.

My van was placed near some rocky cliffs, in such a position as to be snug and secluded, and yet so as to retain a view up the lovely valley through which the little river sparkled and foamed. I selected the spot because of its quietude and beauty; I do not care for the annoyance of children, or the obtrusive curiosity of their elders, when they can easily be avoided by a little forethought.

Once or twice I noticed a tall, middle-aged gentleman roaming quietly among the rocks and pools left by the low tide, and on one occasion passed the seal of day with him in a casual manner; but, as he seemed to be of a retiring disposition, I did not attempt to force my company upon him, and passed on.

One day I sat on a rock observing a wonderful storm-clouded sky; I watched the great, massive, vapour clouds rolling in from the west, growing blacker and denser each minute. I noticed the hush of the air and the subsidence of the wind, and so did the little birds, for they flew twittering overhead to hide themselves from the approaching storm. Then from the clouds burst the vivid zig-zags of lightning, and the accompanying roar of crashing thunder, gradually coming nearer and nearer, more frequent and louder. Presently, with a sudden blast, the wind came hurtling down with startling force and fury, licking up the sand and shingle as it drove along; and behind it came the rain, first a few sparse drops, then a full downpour, and finally a rushing torrent.

This drove me into the welcome shelter of my van; but although I securely closed the door it could not keep, from my startled ears, the thunder crashes, as they reverberated and rolled among the stupendous granite cliffs of the coast. My van shook, and my eyes were blinded by several intense flashes of the discharged electric element, which lighted up the wet rocks and the wind-swept pools with a luridly grand but awful effect.

The cliffs appeared as if they were being shattered and tumbled piecemeal to the shingle below, when an unmistakable tap, tap, tap rattled upon my door, and I fancied I heard a voice, but the crashing and roaring noises around me were so great that I paused before opening the door for a repetition of the sound. Indeed my nerves were strung up to such an intense pitch that, when the taps were repeated in a louder manner, I felt afraid to open, for fear of letting in some weird spirit of the storm.

Nervous, however, as I felt, I arose, and at the door, craving my van’s humble shelter, was the silent gentleman I had spoken to a day or two previously. I welcomed him in, but he was already wet to the skin. That did not at all matter; I had plenty of dry clothes, which fitted him like his own--both his and my inches being more than those allotted to the average mortal.

In an hour the storm was over, the sun once more shone brilliantly over the heaving waters, while the larks rose warbling in the air, carolling their hymn of praise for the return of the welcome sunshine.

My guest accepted my invitation to stay and dine with me, and I found him a very pleasant companion. He helped me to prepare and cook the meal, and in the interval we played cribbage, smoked, and chatted.

He had come down to Cornwall, he informed me, to escape from his friends and mankind in general, for, having inherited some money, he was worried and pestered on all sides by impecunious persons and institutions; and to come to a place where he was unknown was his only means of obtaining a little peace, “far from the madding crowd.”

Of course I brought hypnotism upon the _tapis_ during dinner, and after the meal was discussed, he requested me to try my hand upon him, which of course I gladly did, with the result of obtaining from him the following story of “Two Ruined Towers.”

I must here point out that, though while in a hypnotic trance I can cause my patient to tell me a story, yet when at its conclusion I awaken him, he does not remember a word of what he has divulged, and I do not on all occasions enlighten him; for, as I am at times the recipient of most remarkable family secrets, crimes, and misdeeds, I dare not commit to print a tithe of what is related to me.

II.

TWO RUINED TOWERS.

When about three-and-twenty years of age I had the misfortune to lose my father, an event which altered the whole course of my life, and nearly unhinged my mind. My father was an artist of some repute, and as I also loved the work, I had an ardent wish to follow in his footsteps.

At seventeen I left school, and immediately commenced my artistic studies under my father. I also became a student at the ---- Art School, at which, when I was about twenty years of age, I had the good fortune to gain a travelling scholarship of £100 a year for two years. The first summer I spent in the British Isles, eking out my scholarship money with the help of a small allowance from my good parent.

The winter I spent in my father’s studio, and in the following spring packed up my few belongings, and bidding my father farewell, travelled to various parts of the continent, making my way gradually south as the cold weather approached. Thus, roving about, I picked up a fair knowledge of two or three languages, and when my time of travel expired, found myself in Sicily, from whence, crossing over to Naples, I spent my last few pounds in procuring a passage home on a P. & O. steamer bound for dear old England.

On my arrival I lost no time in sending a telegram to my father, advising him that he might expect me on the following day. I kept my word, and arrived at the time I had mentioned, but, alas! I found my dear old father on a sick-bed, and was only just in time to bid him a long farewell, for he died two days after my return home.

The shock was so great to my nervous system that I too became ill, and for a long time was in grave danger, hovering between life and death, but, by careful nursing and skilful medical treatment, I eventually pulled through. My nerves were greatly shaken at the awful home-coming I had experienced, and the knowledge that I had not written to my father for three weeks previous to coming to England, so that he might know where to address me, preyed greatly upon my mind. I could not help thinking that, had my father been able to communicate with me, I might have returned sooner, and by so doing have possibly saved his life. I felt somehow guilty of a kind of moral parricide, and blamed myself for all that had happened.

It was more than I could bear to enter the studio; everything about the place served to call up memories of the past; even the trees around the old house seemed to whisper as I walked beneath them, “ingrate.”

I could not bear it.

I felt hysterical and delirious, talking and groaning in my sleep; and during the day roaming about the house like one distraught.

The doctor diagnosed the case at once, and told me plainly that I must choose one of two things--a lunatic asylum or foreign travel.

Feeling his opinion to be a sound one, I naturally chose the latter alternative.

Once more I packed up my impedimenta and crossed to Dieppe, from whence I wandered, without any decided route, across France into Switzerland, from thence making my way gradually southward into Italy.

I sketched and painted, selling several of my drawings to tourists who happened to see me at work, and, I suppose, admired my productions. Painting and wandering were my day amusements, but at night I had another source of relaxation and forgetfulness, and that was my flute. Upon this instrument I played fairly well, and it was my constant practice, whenever I was in a favourable place, after my evening meal, to bring forth my instrument and set the peasants dancing. They loved to hear the merry English airs, and became quite excited over the various dance tunes I played them. Minuets, jigs, strathspeys, reels, and hornpipes, all found favour with them, and their attempts to keep step with the more lively measures were sure to bring forth a deal of good-natured banter, mirth, and merriment. I always placed a tin cup at my feet, into which the dancers could drop a small coin if they felt so disposed, and this little collection I invariably gave to relieve any case of distress or poverty in the village. The poor peasants looked upon me as a very strange fellow, for they could not understand why it was I played for money and then gave it all away again, sometimes adding to the fund from my own somewhat slender purse.

Thus I wandered, week after week, as fancy led me, being sure of a good reception in each village I stopped at, for my fame as an artist-musician preceded me, and wherever I stayed for the night a crowd would invariably assemble outside my window, ready for me to step out flute in hand when I had finished my evening meal.

One day I found a peculiarly effective “bit” to transfer to my canvas. It was a lonely, mountainous district I was in, and I had tumbled across some finely-coloured rocks, picturesquely-disposed trees, a ruined chapel, and a turbulent, dashing, little waterfall.

I unstrapped my light-folding easel and set to work. It was a beautiful day, and I toiled on for several hours, singing and whistling quietly to keep myself in countenance and spirits, for I did not see a soul in this lonely spot.

At last I began to grow tired of my painting, and, as the shadows were beginning to lengthen, I packed up, and was about to foot it to the nearest village some four miles distant, when, mingled with the peculiar noises made by the sound of falling water, I fancied I could hear the moaning either of a human being or some animal, apparently in great distress or pain.

Listening, I caught the sound of what I took to be a faint groan!

I placed my kit upon the ground and looked around. At first I could see nothing; but after a moment’s search I discovered an old man sitting among the rocks, moaning and groaning at some serious injury he had apparently received.

Forgetting where I was, I addressed the old man in English.

“Hallo, old fellow, what’s amiss with you?”

He suddenly brought me to myself by replying in good English (although spoken with a foreign accent), and informing me that whilst sitting under a rocky cliff, contemplating the beautiful solitude, a large portion of stone had become detached, and rolling upon his foot, had severely crushed and cut it.

He was a man apparently seventy years of age, with an aquiline nose, piercing dark eyes, whose depth and brilliancy were enhanced by the whiteness of his over-hanging eyebrows, and a fine flowing white beard. All this I took in with an artist’s eye, and made a mental note not to lose an opportunity, by and by, of painting such a wonderfully fine head, if the old man would allow me.

I tore up my pocket-handkerchief, bound up the poor crushed foot, after bathing it with cool water from the river, and set my old friend, who was profuse in his thanks, upon his feet. I ought perhaps say foot, for he could not place his injured foot to the ground, and consequently was unable to walk. I was in a dilemma; the nearest village being a smart hour’s walk away, down in the valley.

“Cheer up, father,” said I; “allow me to try and carry you a little; possibly we may meet some one as we descend the road.”

“Nay, nay, my son,” the old man replied, “leave me. Perhaps after a rest I may be able to put my foot to the ground and proceed on my way.”

“No, that will never do, old gentleman; do you not know that wolves haunt these rocky heights, and would probably devour you in the night if you were left here by yourself and unarmed?”

“Ah, a sweet death, my son, but, alas! wolves cannot harm me.”

I looked at him in amazement as he uttered these words, but concluded the pain had made him somewhat delirious and wild in his talk. Then I took him in my strong young arms and carried him down the rugged path, halting every now and again to recover breath and rest my aching limbs; for, although my burden was but a bag of bones, still, on a rough mountain path, his weight began to tell before I had gone a mile, and I feared I should become exhausted long before we reached the village whither we were bound.

Again and again I lifted the old man and carried him onward, but each time I noticed the distance was less than the previous effort had covered, and after struggling on for a couple of miles, I was forced to give in for a long spell of rest. We were now down upon the plain, and the sun was fast approaching the horizon, when my eye suddenly lighted upon an ox feeding in a little green hollow a couple of hundred yards off. Knowing that in Southern Europe oxen, to a great extent, take the place of horses, I approached it; feeling sure that if it were an ox broken to work, I could give my old friend a comfortable ride to the village upon its ample back.