Paris, May 7.--Can a ghost write poetry? You betcha, says
Baron Maurice de Waleffe, the French satirist, who tells of
a remarkable book of spirits' poems just published in Paris
under the title of "The Glory of Illusion."
Three years ago died Judith Gautier, niece of Theophile Gautier, and
left a collection of slightly--er--passionate novels and collections
of poems which were circulated among friends. One of these friends was
a girl, Judith's most intimate companion. A year after Judith's death
this girl dreamed a dream. In the dream Judith appeared and commanded
her to seize a pencil and write to dictation. The result was a series
of poems of an exoteric character which are triumphs of meter and scan
perfectly. They are published in the name of the girl friend, Mlle. S.
Meyer Zundel, but Mlle. Zundel says they're not really her works at
all, but were directly dictated by her dead friend. Previous to
Judith's death, Mlle. Zundel says she never wrote a line of poetry.
Here we have direct proof of an invisible intelligence directing this
young lady to write poems which she admits she never wrote before her
friend's death. The materialistic skeptic who is always ready to
interpret dreams as coincidences cannot call this a coincidence before
the testimony of such facts when they are brought to the eyes of an
intelligent public. The would-be interpreter of human existence
remains baffled and silent; they can neither deny these facts nor do
they dare to explain them.
Friday, May 6, 1921, Chicago Daily News (by Marion Holmes):
Dear Marion Holmes: I should like just out of curiosity to
get the opinion of some of your corner readers, as well as
your own, on the enclosed sketch of a dream I had when
working out west. About 26 years ago I was working in the
West near the mining country, and one night I dreamed I was
in a mining town, the name of which I did not know in my
dream, nor had I ever seen it in reality. I was crossing the
street to a store building painted white, and in my hand I
carried an envelope that I was to deliver to the boss of the
store. When I arrived at the center of the street I was met
by three men who were coming from the opposite side, one of
whom stopped me, saying: "Come with me and I will show you
where there is a gold mine." I replied: "I haven't time to
go now," but he insisted, "Well, come anyway and when you
have time you can go and get it." So I went. We started off
in the direction of what I have since learned is the richest
locality in gold mines and after walking a while we seemed
to float through space; then we came to the ground a few
feet from the top of the mountain. We walked up to the top
and again floated in the air in a semi-circle, landing at
the foot of another mountain a few miles to the west.
The stranger said: "I want you to note the peculiar
formation of this country and this stream and right here,
walking a short distance, is where you will find the gold."
About three months later I decided to return to Chicago, and
in the train I met a cigar salesman who, as we soon became
friendly, insisted that I should locate in one of the towns
on his route and gave me a letter to a certain friend of his
in the mining district. When the friend had read the letter
he wrote another to a friend of his own on whom I was to
call. As I went down the street I carried the letter in my
hand and as I crossed the street I stopped short, for the
store I sought was the store of my dream.
Three years ago at a summer resort where a company of us
were telling strange dreams, I remarked that the weak part
of my dream was that one of my guides was supposed to be a
dead relative of my own, and my mother remarked at once, "I
had an uncle, a prospector, who died out West in the mining
country, but nobody ever knew just where."
Chicago.