What’s this? Heyday! Magic! Witchcraft!
Passing common hedge and ditch-craft!
You whose sold no magic troubles,
Crawling low among the stubbles,
Thing compact of clay, a body
Meant to perish,--think it odd, eh?
Raise your eyes, poor clod, and try to
See the tree-tops, and the sky too!
There’s the sun with pulses splendid
Whirling onward, star attended!
Child of light am I, the wizard,
Fiery-form’d from brain to gizzard,
While for you, my sun-craft spurning,
Dust thou art, to dust returning!
Joke and Hysteria: a Medley *
* Note.--A joke, and a very poor one, which an honoured and
great master must forgive, since the joker himself has
laboured more than most living men to spread the fame of the
master and to do him honour.--R. B.
Like most men famously or infamously familiar in the mouths of the
public, the Rev. Ambrose Bradley was a good deal troubled with
busy-bodies, who sometimes communicated with him through the medium of
the penny post, and less frequently forced themselves upon his privacy
in person. The majority demanded his autograph; many sought his advice
on matters of a private and spiritual nature; a few requested his
immediate attention to questions in the nature of conundrums on
literature, art, sociology, and the musical glasses. He took a good deal
of this pestering good-humouredly, regarding it as the natural homage to
public success, or notoriety; but sometimes he lost his temper, when
some more than common impertinence aroused his indignation.
Now, it so happened that on the very evening of his painful interview
with Mrs.
Montmorency, he received a personal visit from one of the class to which
we are alluding; and as the visit in question, though trivial enough in
itself, was destined to lead to important consequences, we take leave to
place it upon special record. He was seated alone in his study, darkly
brooding over his own dangerous position, and miserably reviewing the
experiences of his past life, when the housemaid brought in a card, on
which were inscribed, or rather printed, these words:
_Professor Salem Mapleleafe_,
_Solar Biologist_.
‘What is this?’ cried Bradley irritably. ‘I can see nobody.’
As he spoke a voice outside the study door answered him, in a
high-pitched American accent---
‘I beg your pardon. I shan’t detain you two minutes. I am Professor
Maple-leafe, representing the Incorporated Society of Spiritual
Brethren, New York.’
Simultaneously there appeared in the doorway a little, spare man with
a very large head, a gnome-like forehead, and large blue eyes full of
troubled ‘wistfulness’ so often to be found in the faces of educated
Americans. Before the clergyman could utter any further remonstrance
this person was in the room, holding out his hand, which was small and
thin, like that of a woman.
‘My dear sir, permit me to shake you by the hand. In all America, and
I may add in all England, there is no warmer admirer than myself of the
noble campaign you are leading against superstition. I have lines
of introduction to you from our common friends and fellow-workers,
Ellerton and Knowlesworth.’ And he mentioned the names of two of
the leading transcendental thinkers of America, one an eccentric
philosopher, the other a meditative poet, with whom Bradley had
frequently corresponded.
There was really no other way out of the dilemma short of actual
rudeness and incivility, than to take the letters, which the
little Professor eagerly handed over. The first was brief and very
characteristic of the writer, meaning as follows:--
‘See Mapleleafe. He talks nonsense, but he is a man of ideas. I like
him. His sister, who accompanies him, is a sibyl.’
The other was less abrupt and unusual, though nearly as brief.
‘Let me introduce to your notice Professor Maplelcafe, who is on a
visit to Europe with his charming sister. You may have heard of both in
connection with the recent developments in American spiritualism. The
Professor is a man of singular experience, and Miss Mapleleafe is an
accredited clairvoyante. Such civility as you can show them will be
fully appreciated in our circle here.’
Bradley glanced up, and took a further survey of the stranger. On closer
scrutiny he perceived that the Professor’s gnome-like head and wistful
eyes were associated with a somewhat mean and ignoble type of features,
an insignificant turn-up nose, and a receding chin; that his hair, where
it had not thinned away, was pale straw-coloured, and that his eyebrows
and eyelashes were almost white.
His small, shrunken figure was clad in shabby black.
To complete the oddity of his appearance, he carried an eye-glass,
dangling from his neck by a piece of black elastic; and as Bradley eyed
him from head to foot, he fixed the glass into his right eye, thereby
imparting to his curious physiognomy an appearance of jaunty audacity
not at all in keeping with his general appearance.
‘You come at a rather awkward time,’ said Bradley. ‘I seldom or never
receive visits on Sunday evening, and to-night especially----’
He paused and coughed uneasily, looking very ill at ease.
‘I understand, I quite understand,’ returned the Professor, gazing up at
him in real or assumed admiration. ‘You devote your seventh-day evening
to retirement and to meditation. Well, sir, I’m real grieved to disturb
you; but sister and I heard you preach this morning, and I may at once
tell you that for a good square sermon and elocution fit for the Senate,
we never heard anyone to match you, though we’ve heard a few. After
hearing you orate, I couldn’t rest till I presented my lines of
introduction, and that’s a fact. Sister would have come to you, but a
friendly spirit from the planet Mars dropt in just as she was fixing
herself, and she _had_ to stay.’
Bradley looked in surprise at the speaker, beginning to fancy that he
was conversing with a lunatic; but the Professor’s manner was quite
commonplace and matter-of-fact.
‘Have you been long in Europe?’ he asked, hardly knowing what to say.
‘Two months, sir. We have just come from Paris, where we were uncommon
well entertained by the American circle. You are aware, of course, that
my sister has transcendental gifts?’
‘That she is clairvoyante? So Knowlesworth says in his letter. I may
tell you at once that I am a total disbeliever in such matters. I
believe spiritualism, even clairvoyance, to be mere imposture.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ said the Professor, without the slightest sign of
astonishment or irritation. ‘You don’t believe in solar biology?’
‘I don’t even know what that means,’ answered Bradley with a smile.
‘May I explain, sir? Solar biology is the science which demonstrates
our connection with radiant existences of the central luminary of this
universe; our dependence and interdependence as spiritual beings on
the ebb and flow of consciousness from that shining centre; our life
hitherto, now, and hereafter, as solar elements. We are sunbeams, sir,
materialised; thought is psychic sunlight. On the basis of that
great principle is established the reality of our correspondence with
spiritual substances, alien to us, existing in the other solar worlds.’
Bradley shrugged his shoulders. His mood of mind at that moment was the
very reverse of conciliatory towards any form of transcendentalism, and
this seemed arrant nonsense.
‘Let me tell you frankly,’ he said, ‘that in all such matters as these I
am a pure materialist.’
‘Exactly,’ cried the Professor. ‘So are we, sir.’
‘Materialists?’
‘Why, certainly. Spiritualism _is_ materialism; in other words,
everything is spirit matter. All bodies, as the great Swedenborg
demonstrated long ago, are spirit; thought is spirit--that is to say,
sir, sunlight. The same great principle of which I have spoken is the
destruction of all religion save the religion of solar science. It
demolishes Theism, which has been the will-o’-the-wisp of the world,
abolishes Christianity, which has been its bane. The God of the universe
is solar Force, which is universal and pantheistic.’
‘Pray sit down,’ said Bradley, now for the first time becoming
interested. ‘If I understand you, there is no personal God?’
‘Of course not,’ returned the little man, sidling into a chair and
dropping his eyeglass. ‘A personal God is, as the scientists call
it, merely an anthropomorphic Boom. As the great cosmic Bard of solar
biology expresses it in his sublime epic:
The radiant flux and reflux, the serene
Atomic ebb and flow of force divine,
This, this alone, is God, the Demiurgus;
By this alone we are, and still shall be.
O joy! the Phantom of the Uncondition’d
Fades into nothingness before the breath
Of that eternal ever-effluent Life
Whose centre is the shining solar Heart
Of countless throbbing pulses, each a world!
The quotation was delivered with extraordinary rapidity, and in the
offhand matter-of-fact manner characteristic of the speaker. Then, after
pausing a moment, and fixing his glass again, the Professor demanded
eagerly: ‘What do you think of that, sir?’
‘I think,’ answered Bradley, laughing contemptuously, ‘that it is very
poor science, and still poorer poetry.’
‘You think so, really?’ cried the Professor, not in the least
disconcerted. ‘I think I could convince you by a few ordinary
manifestations, that it’s at any rate common sense.’
It was now quite clear to Bradley that the man was a charlatan, and he
was in no mood to listen to spiritualistic jargon. What both amused and
puzzled him was that two such men as his American correspondents should
have franked the Professor to decent society by letters of introduction.
He reflected, however, that from time immemorial men of genius, eager
for glimpses of a better life and a serener state of things, had been
led ‘by the nose,’ like Faust, by charlatans. Now, Bradley, though an
amiable man, had a very ominous frown when he was displeased; and just
now his brow came down, and his eyes looked out of positive caverns, as
he said:
‘I have already told you what I think of spiritualism and spiritualistic
manifestations. I believe my opinion is that of all educated men.’
‘Spiritualism, as commonly understood, is one thing, sir,’ returned the
Professor quietly; ‘spiritualistic materialism, or solar science,
is another. Our creed, sir, like your own, is the destruction of
supernaturalism. If you will permit me once more to quote our sublime
Bard, he sings as follows:--
All things abide in Nature; Form and Soul,
Matter and Thought, Function, Desire, and Dream,
Evolve within her ever-heaving breast;
“Within her, we subsist; beyond and o’er her
Is naught hut Chaos and primaeval Night.
The Shadow of that Night for centuries
Projected Man’s phantasmic Deity,
Formless, fantastic, hideous, and unreal;
God is Existence, and as parts of God
Men ebb and flow, for evermore divine.
‘If you abolish supernaturalism,’ asked the clergyman impatiently, ‘what
do you mean by manifestations?’
‘Just this,’ returned the little man glibly, ‘the interchange of
communications between beings of this sphere and beings otherwise
conditioned. This world is one of many, all of which have a two-fold
existence--in the sphere of matter, and in the sphere of ideas. Death,
which vulgar materialists consider the end of consciousness, is merely
one of the many phenomena of change; and spiritualistic realities being
indestructible----’
Bradley rose impatiently.
‘I am afraid,’ he exclaimed, ‘that I cannot discuss the matter any
longer. Our opinions on the subject are hopelessly antagonistic, and to
speak frankly, I have an invincible repugnance to the subject itself.’
‘Shared, I am sorry to say, by many of your English men of science.’
‘Shared, I am glad to say, by most thinking men.’
‘Well, well, sir, I won’t detain you at present,’ returned the
Professor, not in the least ruffled. ‘Perhaps you will permit me to call
upon you at a more suitable time, and to introduce my sister?’
‘Really, I----’ began Bradley with some embarrassment.
‘Eustasia Mapleleafe is a most remarkable woman, sir. She is a medium of
the first degree; she possesses the power of prophecy, of clairvoyance,
and of thought-reading. The book of the Soul is open to her, and you
would wonder at her remarkable divinations.’
‘I must still plead my entire scepticism,’ said Bradley coldly.
‘I guess Eustasia Mapleleafe would convert you. She was one of your
congregation today, and between ourselves is greatly concerned on your
account.’
‘Concerned on my account!’ echoed the clergyman.
‘Yes, sir. She believes you to be under the sway of malign influences,
possibly lunar or stellar. She perceived a dark spectrum on the radiant
orb of your mind, troubling the solar effluence which all cerebral
matter emits, and which is more particularly emitted by the
phosphorescent cells of the human brain.’
Bradley would by this time have considered that he was talking to
a raving madman, had not the Professor been self-contained and
matter-of-fact. As it was, he could hardly conceive him to be quite
sane. At any other time, perhaps, he might have listened with patience
and even amusement to the fluent little American; but that day, as the
reader is aware, his spirit was far too pre-occupied.
His face darkened unpleasantly as the Professor touched on his state of
mind during the sermon, and he glanced almost angrily towards the door.
‘May I bring my sister?’ persisted the Professor. ‘Or stay--with your
leave, sir, I’ll write our address upon that card, and perhaps you will
favour her with a call.’
As he spoke, he took up his own card from the table, and wrote upon it
with a pencil.
‘That’s it, sir--care of Mrs. Piozzi Baker, 17 Monmouth Crescent,
Bayswater.’
So saying, he held out his hand, which Bradley took mechanically, and
then, with a polite bow, passed from the room and out of the house.
Bradley resumed his seat, and the meditations which his pertinacious
visitor had interrupted; but the interruption, irritating as it was,
had done him good. Absurd as the Professor’s talk had been, it
was suggestive of that kind of speculation which has invariably a
fascination for imaginative men, and from time to time, amidst his
gloomy musings over his own condition, amidst his despair, his dread,
and his self-reproach, the clergyman found himself reminded of the odd
propositions of the so-called biologist.
After all, there was something in the little man’s creed, absurd as it
was, which brought a thinker face to face with the great phenomena of
life and being. How wretched and ignoble seemed his position, in face of
the eternal Problem, which even spiritualism was an attempt to solve!
He was afraid now to look in the mirror of Nature, lest he should behold
only his own lineament, distorted by miserable fears. He felt, for the
time being, infamous. A degrading falsehood, like an iron ring, held him
chained and bound.
Even the strange charlatan had discovered the secret of his misery. He
would soon be a laughing-stock to all the world; he, who had aspired to
be the world’s teacher and prophet, who would have flown like an eagle
into the very central radiance of the sun of Truth!
He rose impatiently, and paced up and down the room. As he did so, his
eye fell upon something white, lying at the feet of the chair where his
visitor had been sitting.
He stooped and picked it up. He found it to be a large envelope, open,
and containing two photographs. Hardly knowing what he did, he took out
the pictures, land examined them.
The first rather puzzled him, though he soon realised its character. It
represented the little Professor, seated in an armchair, reading a book
open upon his knee; behind him was a shadowy something in white floating
drapery, which, on close scrutiny, disclosed the outline of a human face
and form, white and vague like the filmy likeness seen in a
smouldering fire. Beneath this picture was written in a small clear
hand,--‘Professor Mapleleafe and Azaleus, a Spirit of the Third
Magnitude, from the Evening Star.’
It was simply a curious specimen of what is known as
‘Spirit-Photography.’ The clergyman returned it to its envelope with a
smile of contempt.
The second photograph was different; it was the likeness of a woman,
clad in white muslin, and reclining upon a sofa.
The figure was _petite_, almost fairy-like in its fragility; the hair,
which fell in masses over the naked shoulders, very fair; the face,
elfinlike, but exceedingly pretty the eyes, which looked right out
from the picture into those of the spectator, were wonderfully large,
lustrous and wild. So luminous and searching were these eyes, so rapt
and eager the pale face, that Bradley was startled, as if he were
looking into the countenance of a living person.
Beneath this picture were written the words--‘Eustasia Mapleleafe.’
The clergyman looked at this picture again and again, with a curious
fascination. As he did so, holding it close to the lamplight, a peculiar
thrill ran through his frame, and his hand tingled as if it touched the
warm hand of some living being. At last, with an effort, he returned it
also to the envelope, which he threw carelessly upon his desk.
It was quite clear that the Professor had dropt the pictures, and
Bradley determined to send them by that night’s post. So he sat down,
and addressed the envelope according to the address on the card; but
before sealing it up, he took out the photographs and inspected them
again.
A new surprise awaited him.
The photograph of the Professor and his ghostly familiar remained as
it had been; but the photograph of the woman, or girl, was mysteriously
changed--that is to say, it had become so faint and vague as to be
almost unrecognisable. The dress and figure were dim as a wreath of
vapour, the face was blank and featureless, the eyes were faded and
indistinct.
The entire effect was that of some ghostly presence, fading slowly away
before the vision.
Bradley was amazed, in spite of himself, and his whole frame shook with
agitation.
He held the sun-picture again to the lamplight, inspecting it closely,
and every instant it seemed to grow fainter and fainter, till nothing
remained on the paper but a formless outline, like the spirit-presence
permanent on the other photograph.
By instinct a superstitious or rather a nervous man, Bradley now felt
as if he were under the influence of some extraordinary spell. Already
unstrung by the events of the day, he trembled from head to foot.
At last, with an effort, he conquered his agitation, sealed up the
photographs, and rang for the servant to put the letter in the post.
Although he suspected some trick, he was greatly troubled and perplexed;
nor would his trouble and perplexity have been much lessened, if at all,
had he been acquainted with the truth--that the little Professor had
left the photographs in the room not by accident, but intentionally, and
for a purpose which will be better understood at a later period of the
present story.