I GO ON WITH THE HISTORY OF MY LIFE, AND NARRATE A GHOSTLY HAPPENING IN
LIVERPOOL
I gave up acting directly I became engaged to be married. I had no
alternative, as my fiancée’s parents strongly disapproved of the Stage,
and so long as I was on it, they would, I knew, never consent to my
union with their daughter. But it was rather a wrench, for I really
liked acting, and, with the exception of the Sunday travelling, the
life suited me well. What other occupation to choose was a poser. All
the difficulties that had faced me on my return from the States once
again presented themselves, and were aggravated by the fact that I was
many years older. I was racking my brain to know what to do for the
best, when I received a letter from an old friend in Cornwall, who
suggested that I should go down there and open up a small Preparatory
Boys’ School. It was Hobson’s choice, and in due course of time I found
myself once again engaged in the profession I loathed. I started with
four or five pupils, and had worked up my connection till I had nearly
thirty, when someone, with more money than I, set up on a much bigger
scale, and my numbers gradually decreased.
I was never an orthodox pedagogue; very much the reverse. I aimed
rather at making my pupils manly than at cramming their heads with
book work, and, I think, I succeeded. There were exceptions, of course,
but my pupils as a whole developed a fondness for games, both cricket
and football, that bore subsequent fruit when they left me and went
on the public schools. The out-of-door occupation that formed part
of my life now was delightful, but the dry and dull monotony of the
schoolroom, and the eternal interference of certain of the parents
of my pupils, who wanted everything for nothing, for my fees were
ridiculously small, took it out of me so much, that I simply longed to
throw up the whole thing and get back to my dearly-beloved stage or
writing.
It was while I was in Cornwall that I got my first book, “For Satan’s
Sake,” taken. Mr. Ranger Gull, who was at that time reader for Mr.
Arthur Greening’s publishing house, read the MS., and was so pleased
with it, that he recommended it strongly for publication. It was
accepted, but did not appear in print for fully a year.
“The Unknown Depths,” which I had written in St. James’ Road, Brixton,
followed; then “Jennie Barlowe,” which I wrote between school hours in
Cornwall in the Spring of 1906; then “Dinevah the Beautiful,” the last
of my efforts in Brixton. The latter appeared in 1907.
In the winter of 1908 my wife was ill, and in the evenings, when my
harassing duties in the schoolroom were over, I used to sit by her
bedside evolving fresh plots. It was then that I first conceived the
idea of writing a ghost book.
In my holidays, which I usually spent in London or the Midlands, never
in Cornwall—I always flew away from the precincts of the schoolroom
the moment we broke up—I had often gone ghost-hunting, and I now
determined to make use of my experiences. Consequently, I mapped out
a synopsis of a work on haunted houses, which was at once accepted
by Mr. Eveleigh Nash, who commissioned me to write a book on those
lines. I did this in the Summer of 1908, and the book, which appeared
in the Autumn of that year and was entitled “Some Haunted Houses of
England and Wales,” created something of a sensation. It was not only
extensively reviewed by the London papers, but by many of the American
and Colonial ones as well. From that time onward my pen has rarely
been idle, and, apart from compiling some dozen or so works on the
Superphysical, I have written innumerable short stories and articles.
Indeed, so associated has my name become with everything appertaining
to the psychic, that publishers are inclined to the idea that I cannot
write upon any other subject. In this, however, I venture to think they
are mistaken; for my two works, “The Reminiscences of Mrs. E. M. Ward”
and “The Irish Abroad,” both published by Sir Isaac Pitman & Co., have
been very favourably received by both the Press and public.
It was, however, the success of this first work of mine on ghostly
phenomena that made me realise that what I had long hoped for had at
last come within measurable distance of attainment. I could give up
teaching and devote my time once again, wholly and solely to writing.
Never shall I forget with what joy—with what unbounded and infinite
joy—I hailed the prospect of leaving for ever behind me all those
weary, dreary hours in the schoolroom, where I had been forced to
display a patience I never had, and where I had been forced to assume a
virtue I never really possessed, namely, a love of teaching.
I made public my intention of giving up the school in the summer of
1908, and the following winter saw me snugly ensconced in a little
house in Upper Norwood, where I have been ever since.
Several writers, one of whom I had the pleasure of meeting in London
quite recently (his brilliant character studies of young and charming
girls figure monthly in certain of the popular magazines), have been
credited with introducing to the public, none too favourably, this
Cornish Colony amongst whom I lived. If they have done so, I can
certainly endorse their sentiments. In no other town that I have been
in have I ever met people who laid themselves open to such unfavourable
criticism. I lived there nearly eight years, and during that time I
received the bare minimum of hospitality. I found the greater number
of the inhabitants bigoted and pharisaical and the townfolk and
labouring people not only extremely ignorant, but very unforgiving and
vindictive. That they were still—that is to say, at the time I am
writing of—in a tribal state was proved by their puerile attitude of
hostility to strangers, whom they used frequently to insult and annoy.
I signed two petitions relative to the throwing of stones at visitors,
which petitions were forwarded to the Home Secretary. The result was
nil. The local authorities, in dealing with such cases, displayed
the most woeful apathy, and apparently this state of affairs was
irremediable, since the magistrates, with few exceptions, were related
to half the people in the town.
With the Art Colony I had very little to do. The few artists I knew
at all intimately I liked. I found them congenial and generally
sympathetic, though displaying an avidity in criticising authors,
which, considering their touchiness with regard to any criticism of
their own work, was distinctly amusing; all the same, apart from
this and one other harmless peculiarity, namely, an exaggerated and
unblushing deference to titles, I found them very good fellows, and
nearly all the hospitality I received in the town I received from them.
I think I am right in saying there was never a very friendly feeling
between the townspeople and the artists. The townspeople looked upon
the artists as intruders, “foreigners,” whose ways and habits were
diametrically opposite to theirs, especially with regard to the
treatment of the Sabbath; whilst the artists showed a none too well
concealed contempt for the townspeople, whom they seemed to regard not
only as hopelessly inartistic, but of an utterly inferior breed.
In most small towns there is a good deal of unkind gossip and scandal,
but I really think that in this respect the town I refer to was
unrivalled. It seemed to me that the people were never so happy as when
saying malicious things about each other, and they meanly victimised
those whose limited means would not permit of their taking legal action
against them.
I have often wondered what made these people so peculiarly unkind.
As soon as I had settled down in Norwood, I wrote “Ghostly Phenomena,”
which was reviewed at length by Andrew Lang in the “Morning Post.”
About that time I had the great pleasure of meeting Mrs. E. M. Ward.
The rencontre happened thus. The Misses Enid and Beatrice Ward, Mrs.
Ward’s youngest daughters, were getting up some theatricals, and, being
short of a man, asked a lady, with whom I was acquainted, if she knew
of anyone who would help them out of the difficulty. She wrote to me,
with the result that I took part in the play, and thus had the good
fortune to meet the Wards, with whom, I am happy to say, I have kept in
touch ever since.
A year or so afterwards I edited Mrs. Ward’s reminiscences, which was,
almost without exception, well received by the Press. Some papers,
“Vanity Fair” and the “Weekly Graphic,” for instance—the “Graphic”
has always been very kind and fair to me,—giving the book several
lengthy and highly eulogistic notices. Mrs. Ward is a believer in
ghosts, and in her reminiscences there is a very interesting first-hand
experience of hers with the Superphysical. Mrs. Ward’s children, apart
from the fact that they inherit talent from their mother and father,
and grandfather, their great-grandfather, James Ward, R.A., and their
great-great-uncle, George Morland, R.A., are very interesting in
themselves and possess exceptional personal attractions.
A year after I first visited their house, I was commissioned by
the Editor of “The Weekly Despatch,” Mr. Beuley, to write a series
of ghostly experiences for that paper. In order to do this I made
pilgrimages to all parts of the country, and in my zeal to find ghosts
occasionally encountered objects of a very different nature. On one
occasion, in Brighton, I had taken advantage of a slightly open window
to enter a tiny house I had been told was very badly haunted. It was a
very dark night, and being unable to find my matches, I had to grope
my way about. I was in a room with apparently never ending walls—they
seemed to go round and round without any outlet at all. At last,
however, I managed to discover a doorway, and, passing through it, I
felt my way to a staircase, which I climbed up, till I came to what I
judged to be a landing. There all further speculations were brought to
an abrupt end by my suddenly falling over some large, soft object on
the floor. In an instant, there was a loud yell, and I found myself
rolling over and over clawing and clutching at some foul and unsavoury
mass, that seemed to have fastened itself on to me with the intention
of first probing out my eyes, and then throttling me. The small flask
of whiskey that I happened to have on me undoubtedly saved me from
total annihilation. The moment the claw-like hands touched the flask, I
was free.
I staggered to my feet, searched again, and, this time, fortunately
found the match-box and struck a light.
Crouching on the floor in front of me was a long, thin, scraggy
creature with an absolutely bloodless face and two big, round,
protruding black eyes. Its hair was matted like a mop and tossed about
anywhere; its clothes, or rather rags, were buttonless, and only
held together, here and there, by pieces of filthy string. A more
disgusting, and at the same time pitiable, spectacle could not be
imagined.
It was fortunate for me that I had had previous experience of such
sights in the parks and commons of London, otherwise I should have been
terrified out of my wits. As it was, I only just managed to pull myself
together, and realising that what I saw before me was not a ghost, but
a material and now, as far as I was concerned, harmless being, I spoke
to it.
“Well,” I said, “at any rate you seem to like my whiskey. How long have
you been here?”
The flask was gradually lowered, and a voice, which I decided was that
of a woman—for up to the present I hadn’t been able to decipher its
sex—gurgled, “I sleep here every night. This is my house.”
“Then the enigma is solved,” I said. “You are the ghost!”
“I soon shall be,” the creature replied, “for I’ve eaten nothing for
more than two days.”
“Well, I’m afraid I cannot give you any more than this,” I said, “for
it’s all I have with me.” And I handed her some biscuits and bread and
cheese.
Never shall I forget the savage joy with which she snatched the food
from my hand and crammed it into her big, gaping, fleshless jaws. No
animal in the Zoo was half so voracious. When she had finished it all,
and drained the last drop of whiskey, she drew her lean and dirty,
albeit well-shaped, fingers across her mouth, and cursed me.
“Get you gone,” she snarled, “and leave me here. I tell you this is my
house. I’ve as much right to it as you or anyone else. Get you gone,
or I’ll spit at you.” And not wishing to be spat upon, I picked up my
flask and departed.
I encountered another ghost of this order three nights later in a house
in Manchester. The house was furnished, but was untenanted, as the
owner, a rich and eccentric old lady, believed it to be haunted. She
wrote to me, _àpropos_ of my book, “Ghostly Phenomena,” and suggested
I should try and exorcise the ghost. Now I do not altogether believe
in exorcism. There are occasions upon which it has been practised with
success, mostly in cases of haunting by phantasms of the sane dead, but
there are also many cases, within my own experience, in which it has
been practised with no result whatever.
At all events, with my elastic views regarding denominational religion,
I did not feel disposed to try it, and so I wrote and told her. She
replied, “Come in any case, and give me your opinion as to the nature
and cause of the phenomena.”
I went. The house was in a quiet, sleepy thoroughfare, not three
minutes walk from the Whalley Road. It was big and roomy, and would
have been attractive but for the walls, the papers of which had
obviously been chosen by someone who did not possess even the most
elementary conception of what is pleasing in colour and design. As it
was, my artistic susceptibilities were so grossly outraged, that I
could well have imagined, the place haunted by neutrarians of the most
undesirable order.
I visited the house in the early evening, and the subdued light from
the fast-fading sunshine, filtering through the drawn Venetian blinds,
produced a singularly sad, and, at the same time, ghostly effect. I had
come unaccompanied, for nothing on earth would persuade the old lady
or any of her domestics to set a foot in the house, and as I wandered
through room after room, the intense hush began at length to tell on
my nerves. When I was on the staircase leading to the top storey, I
fancied I heard a slight noise, and a sudden faintness coming over me,
I had to clutch hold of the banisters to prevent myself falling. I went
on, however, and opening a door at the top of the stairs, found myself
in a large room communicating with two other rooms by means of doors,
both of which stood slightly ajar. I had passed through the first,
and was half across the floor of the second, when I suddenly felt one
of my ankles caught hold of. The shock was so great that all the blood
in my body seemed suddenly to dry up, and again I all but fainted.
Forcing myself to look down, however, I perceived a skinny hand and arm
protruding from under the dressing-table, and assured by the appearance
of it that it belonged to nothing ghostly, I struck at it with my
stick, kicking out vigorously at the same time.
With terrible howlings there now crawled from under the table a long
and lanky idiot boy. It transpired that he was the son of one of the
old lady’s servants, and that he was enjoying a nice, comfortable home
at her expense. His mother used to visit him every evening, and this
evening he had hidden under the table with the intention of frightening
her. Unfortunately for them both, however, he had frightened me
instead. The servant, of course, lost her post, and the old lady,
assured that there was no longer any fear of ghosts, came back to the
house, and, at my suggestion, had all the walls re-papered.
The following week I had another rather strange experience in
Liverpool. I was getting dozens of letters weekly at that time, as
the first of my series of ghost stories had appeared in the “Weekly
Despatch,” and my fame as a spook hunter had spread far and wide in
consequence. A lady in Liverpool wrote to me, saying that her daughter,
Emily, was tormented by a man coming into her bedroom every night at
the same time and walking off with her bedclothes. He said nothing,
merely opened her door, and, approaching the bed on tip-toe, caught
hold of the clothes and hurriedly retreated with them. Spirit lights,
my correspondent added, were constantly seen in the room, and at times
figures like angels, and she would be glad if I would visit the house,
and discover for her, if possible, some explanation of the occurrences.
The nature of the manifestations being somewhat extraordinary, I
thought it discreet to take a friend. The house was in a crescent,
close to Clayton Square. We were shown into the drawing-room, where
all the family were assembled, and we were at once regaled with
detailed accounts of all that was alleged to happen. Then we were
taken to the bedroom that was haunted, and the young lady whose bed
the ghost stripped, at our request, sat there with us. As soon as the
electric light was switched off, she began to see spirit lights. We
saw nothing. No man appeared, and, on taking our departure, we both
agreed that the phenomena were subjective, and that it was simply a
case of hallucination. Accordingly, I advised her mother to consult a
good general practitioner, as, in all probability, her daughter needed
a tonic and change of air. I strongly warned her against consulting any
professional Spiritualist.
Well, I returned to London, and thought no more of the matter till
the following Christmas, when, quite by chance, I ran against a young
doctor, to whom I had mentioned the incident. Evidently eager to
communicate something, he remarked, “You remember that Liverpool case
you told me about—the case of the young lady whose bedclothes used
to disappear, and which you thought was hallucination? Well, you were
mistaken. Since I saw you, I have become acquainted with the doctor
who attends her, and he told me that, whilst he was there one day,
the bedroom door opened and in walked a young man. He says the girl
immediately exclaimed, ‘Here is the man who haunts my room at night.
For goodness sake, Doctor, do something!’ Whereupon, the man, muttering
some words in German, abruptly left the room. My doctor friend
immediately ran after him, but he was nowhere to be seen, and although
the house was at once searched, no traces of him could be found. Now,
what do you think of the case?”
“It is certainly a very unusual one,” I replied, “and, as you say,
this sequel quite upsets my theory of hallucination. It may be a case
of projection. Someone who knows the girl and wishes to torment her is
experimenting in visiting her in his immaterial ego. I have heard of
similar cases.”
“But she knows no one like him,” my friend responded.
“Probably not,” I said. “The image she sees may be, and very likely is,
merely an assumed one. Does she know any Indians, or anyone who is an
earnest student of the occult? Find out if you can.”
I have not yet heard from my friend, but I still incline to the idea
that the ghost in this case was a phantasm of the living, rather than a
phantasm of the dead.