The reader will have observed that up to the present moment I have not emphasized in any way the question of the identity of the “intelligences” that have manifested themselves.  The reason for this lies in the fact that I was still seeking evidence concerning the processes of mediumship.  However, being convinced (by reason of my own experiments, supported by those of Lombroso, Morselli, and Bottazzi) that the facts of mediumship exist, it is my purpose to take up definitely the question of identity, which is the final and most elusive part of the problem ­it may turn out to be the insoluble part of the problem.

If you ask why it should be insoluble, I reply, because it concerns the mystery of death, and it may be that it is not well for us to penetrate the ultimate shadow.  Among all the men of the highest rank who admit the reality of apparitions and voices, there are but few as yet who are willing to assert that the dead manifest themselves.  By this I mean that though some of them, like Crookes, for example, believe in “the intervention of discarnate intelligences,” they are not ready to grant that these intelligences are their grandfathers returning to the scene of their earthly labors.

I said something like this to Miller and Fowler, when we met at the club one afternoon not long after the final meeting of Cameron’s Amateur Psychical Society, and I added:  “I must confess that most of the spirits I have met seem to me merely parasitic or secondary personalities (to use Maxwell’s term), drawn from the psychic or from myself.  Nearly every one of the mediums I have studied has had at least one guide, whose voice and habit of thought were perilously similar to her own.  This, in some cases, has been laughable, as when ‘Rolling Thunder,’ a Sioux chief (Indians are all chiefs in the spirit world), appears and says:  ’Goot efening, friends; id iss a nice night alretty.’  And yet I have seen a whole roomful of people receive communications from a spirit of this kind with solemn awe.  I burn with shame for the sitters and psychic when this kind of thing is going on.”

“You visit the wrong mediums,” said Fowler.  “Such psychics are on a low plane.  I never go to those who associate with Indians.”

“But mediums are all alike in this respect.  I don’t suppose Mrs. Smiley realizes that ‘Maudie’ would be called by a doubter a falsetto disguise of her own voice, and ‘Wilbur’ a shrewd and humorous personification of her subconscious self; or, if she does, she probably ascribes it to the process of materialization which ‘takes from’ the medium.  Never but once have I had the sensation of being in the presence of a real spirit personality, and that happened to me only a few days ago.”

“It must have been an extraordinary experience to have made so deep an impression upon you,” said Fowler.

“Yes, it was extraordinary.  It had the personal element in it to a much greater degree than any case I had hitherto studied, and seemed a direct attempt at identification on the part of a powerful and original individuality but recently ‘passed out.’  It came about in this way: 

“I met, not long ago, at the home of a friend in a Western city, a woman who was said to be able to produce whispers independent of her own organs of speech.  I was assured by those in whom I had confidence that these voices could be heard in the broad light of day, in the open air, anywhere the psychic happened to be, and that her ‘work’ was of an exceptionally high character.  I was keenly interested, as you may imagine, and asked for a sitting.  Mrs. Hartley, as we will call her, fixed a day and hour in her own house for the trial, and I went to the sitting a few days later with high expectations of her ‘phase.’  I found her living in a small frame house on a pleasant street, with nothing to indicate that it was a meeting-place of mortals and their ’spirit guides.’

“Mrs. Hartley was quite evidently a woman of power and native intelligence.  After a few minutes of general conversation she took me up to her study on the second floor, a sunny little den on the east side of the house, which was not in the least suggestive of hocus-pocus.  A broad mission table, two bookcases, a few flowers, and a curious battered old black walnut table completed the furnishing of the room, which indicated something rather studious and thoughtful in the owner.

“Mrs. Hartley asked me to be seated, and added, ’Please write on a sheet of paper the names of such friends as you would like to communicate with.’  She then left the room on some household errand, and while she was gone I wrote the name of her guide, ‘Dr. Cooke’ (out of compliment), and added that of a musical friend whom I will call ‘Ernest Alexander.’  I also wrote the names ‘Jessie’ and ‘David,’ folded the sheet once, and retained it under my hand.  Upon her return the psychic seated herself at the battered oval table, and, taking up a pair of hinged school slates, began to clean them with a cloth.  I am not going to detail my precautions.  You must take my detective work for granted.  Moreover, in this case I was awaiting the voices; the slate-writing was gratuitous.  She took the slates (between which I had dropped my slip of paper), and, putting them beneath the table, asked me to hold one corner.”

“I wish they wouldn’t do that,” protested Fowler.  “It isn’t necessary.  I’ve had messages on slates held in my own hands six feet from the psychic.”

“As we sat thus she told me that she had never been in a trance, and that she never permitted the dark.  ’I force my guides to work in the light,’ she said.  She declared that the whispers which I was presently to hear came to her under all conditions, and that her spirit friends talked to her familiarly as she went about her household duties.  She assured me that ‘they’ were a great help and comfort to her.  ‘Dr. Cooke’ was her ever-present guide and counsellor, and her father and brother were always near.

“It was plain that she did not stand in awe of them, for after half an hour’s wait she grew impatient and called out in an imperious tone:  ‘Come, dear, I want you.  Come, anybody.’  Two or three times she spoke loudly, clearly, as if calling to some one through a thick wall.  This interested me exceedingly.  Generally psychics are very humble and patient with their ‘guides.’  A few moments later the slates began to slam about so violently beneath the table that her arm was bruised, and she protested sharply:  ’Don’t do that.  You will break the slates and the table both!’ Thereupon the ‘forces’ quieted down till only a peculiar quiver remained in them.  I could hear writing going on steadily.

“At last a tap came to announce that the messages were written.  The psychic withdrew the slates and handed them across the table to me.  I opened them and took out my paper.  On one slate was a message from ’Dr. Cooke,’ the guide; on the other were these words, written in slate-pencil:  ’I would that you could see me as I am now, still occupied, and happy to be busy.’ This was followed by four lines and three little marks, evidently intended to symbolize a bar of music, and the whole was signed, ‘E.  Alexander.’  The writing was firm and manly, but I did not recognize it as that of my friend.

“The second trial resulted in this vague communication:  ’My dear friend, don’t overdo.  Earth is but one life.  Many I recall.  I tried to give expression to my one talent.’ This was signed ‘Ernest Alexander.’  Both these replies, as you see, were very general in phraseology, but the third message came closer to the individual:  ’I was so tired and not myself.  I am well and in the world of progress.  Ernest Alexander.’ The bar of music again appeared, this time much more ‘developed.’”

Miller stopped me here.  “All this is quite simple.  Mrs. Hartley opened and read your note and, following up the clew, simply did some neat trick-writing beneath the table.”

“It is not so simple as all that,” I answered.  “She was interrupted about this time by the doorbell, and while she was gone I wrote on another piece of paper:  ’Ernest, give me a test of your identity.  Write a bar from the “ ­ Sonata."’ This note I folded close and put in an inside pocket.

“In answer to this request, when the medium returned I got these pertinent words:  ’I was not a disappointment to myself, but I was at a point where nerve force failed me.’ This was signed ‘Ernest,’ and was accompanied by another sketchy bar of music.  It all looked like a real attempt to give me what I had asked for, and yet it was the kind of reply that might have been made by the medium had she known the history of my musical friend, or had she been able to take it out of my mind.”

“Even that is a violent assumption to me,” remarked Miller.

“So it is to me,” I answered.  “I can’t really believe in thought transmission, and yet ­ I then asked for the signature of the staff, and a small ‘c’ was written in the bar above, and another bar was added.  Now on the slates there came (with every evidence of eager haste) intimate questions concerning Alexander’s family:  ’Is my wife cared for?’ and the like.  To these I replied orally.  I must tell you that all along the whisper spoke of Alexander’s wife as ‘Mary,’ which was wrong, although it was close to the actual name.  Also, after I began to speak of him as ‘E.  A.’ the messages were all signed in that manner, all of which would seem to argue a little confusion in the psychic’s mind.

“A little later, while I held the slate myself, the mysterious ‘force’ wrote, ’I thank you for what you have done.  I have been told my mind is clear,’ which was particularly full of meaning to me, for the reason that my friend’s mind was clouded toward the close of his life.”

“All of which proves nothing,” insisted Miller.  “Your friend, if I conjecture rightly, was a well-known man, and the psychic could have read, and probably did read, all about his illness in the public press.”

“It may be so.  About this time I began to hear a faint whisper, which seemed to come from a point a little to the right of and a foot or two above the psychic’s lips.  This, she informed me, was the voice of ’Dr. Cooke,’ her guide.  I could catch only a few of the whispered words, and Mrs. Hartley was forced to repeat them.  ‘Dr. Cooke,’ thus interpreted, said:  ’Your friend Alexander is present, and overjoyed to talk with you.’ The conversation went on with both ‘Dr. Cooke’ and the psychic standing between the alleged spirit and myself; but even then I must admit that ‘Alexander’s’ queries and answers were to the point.

“Under what seemed like test conditions I got two more bars of music, both much more definitive in form than the others; and these, the whisper declared, were from the third movement of the ‘ ­ Sonata.’  This message was accompanied by a curious little device like the letter C with a line drawn through it, and I said to myself:  ’If this should prove to be a mark which “Ernest” used in signing his manuscript, something like Whistler’s butterfly, I shall have a fine test of thought transmission.’

“I now secured under excellent tests the writing of a singular word, which was plainly spelled but meant nothing to me.  It looked like ‘Isinghere.’  In answer to oral questioning, the whisper said that these bars of music were part of an unpublished manuscript, a fragment, which the composer had meant to call ‘Isinghere.’”

“What about the process?” asked Miller.  “Did the writing appear to be supernormal?”

“Yes, and so did the whispering.  I could detect no connection between the lips of the psychic and the voice.  In one way or another I varied the conditions, so that I was at last quite convinced of the psychic’s supernormal power; but that was not my quest.  I was seeking proof of the identity of my friend ‘E.  A.’

“Seeing that the chief means of identification might be in the music, I persuaded my friend Blake, who is a fairly competent musician, to sit with me and decipher the score which ‘E.  A.’ persisted in setting down.  I was now eager to secure a complete phrase of the music.  I saw myself establishing, at the least, the most beautiful case of mind-tapping on record.  ’If we can secure the score of an unpublished manuscript of Alexander’s composition we shall have worked a miracle,’ I said to Blake.

“Our first sitting, which took place in the home of a common friend, was mixed as to results; but the second, which we held in Mrs. Hartley’s study one bright morning, was very fruitful.  The ‘powers’ started in at once as if to confound us both.  Blake received a message written on a slate under his foot, and I got the name ‘Jessie,’ with the word ‘sister’ written beneath it; and then suddenly the whispers changed in character.  The words became swift, impetuous, imperious. ’Line off all the leaves of a slate,’ the voice commanded.  I understood at once, for in the previous sitting ‘E.  A.’ had seemingly found it difficult to draw a long line.

“We had brought some silicon slates of the book variety, and Blake now proceeded to rule one of them with the lines of a musical staff, and on these slates, held as before beneath the table, we began to get bars of music of a character quite outside the knowledge of the psychic and myself; and, more remarkable still, the whispers, so the psychic informed us, were no longer from ‘Dr. Cooke’; ‘E.  A.,’ she declared, was there in person and directing the work.

“Furthermore, the requests that we now received were entirely different in character from ‘Cooke’s’ impersonal remarks.  The whispers were quick and masterful, wonderfully like ‘Alexander’ in content.  ‘He’ was humorous; ‘he’ acknowledged mistakes in the score, calling them ’slips of the pen.’  ‘He’ became highly technical in his conversation with Blake, talking of musical matters that were Greek to me and, I venture to say, Coptic to the psychic.  ‘He’ corrected the notations himself, sometimes when Blake held the slate, sometimes when I held it.  Part of the time ‘he’ indicated the corrections orally.  ‘He’ asked Blake to try the air.

“At last ‘he’ broke off, and imperiously said:  ’Take the table to the piano.’ This seemed to surprise the psychic, but she acquiesced, and we moved the small stand and our slates down to the little parlor; and there, with Blake now holding the slate beneath the table and now playing the notes upon the piano, the score grew into a weird little melody with bass accompaniment, which seemed to me at the moment exactly like a message from my friend Alexander.  The first bar went through me like the sound of his voice.”

“Now you are getting into the upper air of spiritualism,” exulted Fowler.  “You are now receiving a message that has dignity and meaning.”

“So it seemed at the moment, both to Blake and to myself.  The music was manifestly not the kind of thing that Mrs. Hartley could conceive.  It was absolutely not commonplace.  It was elliptical, touched with technical subtlety, although simple in appearance.  At last a complete phrase was written out and partly harmonized.  This, ‘E.  A.’ said, was the beginning of a little piece that he had intended to call ‘Unghere’ or ‘Hungarie.’  Nothing in all my long experience with psychics ever moved me like the first phrase of that sweet, sad melody.  It seemed like the touch of identification I had been seeking.”

“But your friend Blake was a musician,” interrupted Miller.  “And how about your own subconscious self?  You are musical, and your mind is filled with your friend Alexander’s music.”

“That is true, and I had that reservation all along.  ‘E.  A.’ may have been made up of our combined subconscious selves; I admit all that.  But no matter; it was still very marvellous, even on its material side, for some of this music was written in while the slates were in Blake’s entire control.  At times he not merely inserted them himself but withdrew them ­the psychic merely clutched one corner of them.  Furthermore, throughout all this composition ‘Ernest’ was master of the situation.  ‘Dr. Cooke’ was superseded.  There was neither feebleness nor hesitation in the voice.  I could now distinguish most of the words, and the dialogue went forward exactly as if a master musician were dictating to an intelligent amanuensis a new and subtle sketch.”

“Did the medium look at the music?” asked Miller.

“Yes, now and then.  However, most of the corrections were put in upside down, as regards her position, and during the last sitting she appeared to be no more than a mere on-looker.  Once as we sat holding the slate ‘Ernest’ whispered to me:  ‘Blake is a fine fellow.  I met him twice.’”

“‘Can you tell me where?’ asked Blake.

“‘It was in New York City,’ was the reply; then, after a moment’s hesitation:  ‘It was at dinner ­both times!’ ‘You are right,’ said Blake, much impressed.  ‘Can you tell me the places?’ ’Once was on Fifth Avenue.  The other was ­I can’t tell the location exactly; but it was where we went down a short flight of steps.’ ‘That is correct also,’ said Blake.  ‘How many persons were there?’ ‘Five.’ ’Quite right.  Can you tell me who they were?’ ’Well, Mary was there, and you, of course; but I can’t be sure of the others.’

“Blake looked at me in astonishment, and our minds flashed along the same line.  Suppose the whisper were only a bit of clever ventriloquism, how did the psychic secure the information conveyed in this dialogue?  It was given as I write it, with only a bit of hesitation once or twice; and yet, it may have been merely thought transference.”

“Merely thought transference!” exclaimed Miller.  “I consider thought transference quite as absurd as slate-writing.”

Fowler interposed.  “I consider this a simple case of spirit communication.  You should be grateful for such a beautiful response.”

“This significant fact is not to be overlooked,” I resumed:  “the psychic secured almost nothing else that concerned either Blake’s affairs or my own.  Mainly the whispers had to do with ‘E.  A.,’ which, of course, bears out Miller’s notion that the psychic could deal only with what was public property, and yet this little colloquy about the dinners in New York is very convincing so far as mind-reading goes.

“During the third sitting, Blake again being present, ‘E.  A.’ took control, as before, from the start, and carried forward the recording of the musical fragment. ‘I want you to fill in the treble, Blake,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing but the bare melody now.’ Blake protested:  ’I’m not up to this.’  And the whisper came swiftly, ’You’re too modest, Blake’; and a moment later it said:  ’I hope you’re not bored, Garland.’ If all this was a little play of the psychic’s devising it was very clever, for after a few minutes of close attention to Blake, ‘E.  A.’ turned toward me and asked, with anxious haste:  ’Where’s Garland?’ ‘I am here,’ I answered. ‘Don’t go away,’ he entreated.  It was as if for the moment he had lost sight of me by reason of fixing his attention upon Blake.”

“That is singular!” exclaimed Fowler.  “Their field of vision is evidently much more restricted than we thought.”

“It must be very small indeed, for Blake and I sat touching elbows.  Two or three times the whispering voice called, ‘Is Garland here?’ and once it asked:  ‘What is Garland doing?  I see his hand moving.’ I explained that I was making notes. ‘Don’t do it!’ was the agitated request.”

“A very neat little touch,” remarked Miller.

“We worked for a long time over this music, directed by the voice, both in the notation and in the execution of it.  The lines were drawn for both bass and treble lengthwise of the slate, and Blake found the little piece difficult to play, partly because the staves were on different leaves of the slate and partly because the notes, especially some of those put in at the beginning by the composer, were becoming blurred.  It was marvellous to see how exactly these dim notes were touched up by the mysterious pencil beneath the table.  But our progress was slow.  ‘E.  A.’ was very patient, though now and then he plumply opposed his will to Blake’s.  Once, especially, Blake exclaimed:  ‘That can’t be right!’

“‘Yes, it is right!’ insisted ‘E.  A.’

“‘But it is very unusual to construct a measure in that way.’  For there was a seeming confusion of three-four time with six-eight time.

“‘It is a liberty I permit myself,’ was the swift reply.

“In the last bar, which did not appear to be filled satisfactorily, the composer directed the insertion of a figure 2.  This meant, as became clear through a subsequent reference to his printed scores, the playing of two quarter-notes in the time of three eighth notes, but was not understood at the moment by Blake.

“‘Never mind,’ said ‘E.  A.,’ pleasantly, ’I will write it differently.’  The figure ‘2’ was cancelled, and the measure was completed by a rest.  This is only one of many astonishing passages in this dialogue.

“In all this work ‘E.  A.’ carried himself like the creative master.  He held to a plane apparently far above the psychic’s musical knowledge, and often above that of his amanuensis.  He was highly technical throughout in both the composition and the playing, and Blake followed his will, for the most part, as if the whispers came from Alexander himself.  And yet I repeat the music and all may have come from a union of Blake’s mind with that of the psychic, with now and then a mixture of my own subconscious self.”

“What was the psychic doing all this time?” asked Miller.

“She was listening to the voice and repeating the words which Blake could not hear.  She seemed merely the somewhat bored interpreter of words which she did not fully understand.  It was precisely as if she were catching by wireless telephone the whispered instructions of my friend ‘E.  A.’  I can’t believe she consciously deceived us, but it is possible that these ventriloquistic voices have become a subconscious habit.

“One other very curious event I must note.  Once, when Blake was asking for a correction, the whisper exclaimed:  ‘I can’t see it, Blake!’

“‘Cover it with your hand,’ interjected the ‘control.’  Blake did so, and ‘E.  A.’ spoke, gratefully:  ’I see it now.”

“Seeing cannot mean the same with them that it does with us,” exclaimed Fowler.  “You remember Crookes put his finger on the print of a newspaper behind his back, and the ‘spirit’ spoke the word that was under his finger-tip.  They apprehend by means of some form of etheric vibration not known to us.”

I resumed:  “Let me stop here for a moment to emphasize a very curious contradiction.  Between my first séance with Mrs. Hartley and this, our third attempt to secure the music, I had held two sittings in the home of a friend.  Mrs. Hartley had come to the house about ten o’clock in the morning, bringing nothing with her except a few tips of soft slate-pencil.  During the sitting I had secured in the middle of a manila pad (a pad which the psychic had never seen and which I had taken from my friend’s desk) these words:  ‘Have Schumann. ­E.  A.’ This writing I had taken to mean that ‘Ernest’ wanted to hear some of Schumann’s music, and in that understanding I had called Blake in to play.  This had seemed at the moment perfectly conclusive and entirely satisfactory; yet now, in this final sitting, ‘E.  A.’ suddenly reverted to this message, and whispered:  ’Garland, there is a certain etude which I took to Schumann.  I want you to regain it and take it to Smart.  Mary will know about it.  I meant to take it away, but did I?  I was so badly off mentally that I don’t know whether I did or not.’ Whereupon Blake said:  ’Do you mean Schumann the publisher?’ ‘Yes,’ ‘E.  A.’ replied; and I said:  ’And you want the manuscript recalled from Schumann and given to Smart?’ ‘Yes,’ was his very definite answer.

“‘Very well, I will attend to it,’ I replied.  ’What do you want done with this fragment, “Isinghere"?’ I pursued.  ‘Shall I publish it?’ ‘That is what it is for,’ he answered, curtly.

“‘How many bars are in it?’ asked Blake.  ‘Forty?’ ‘More,’ returned the whisper.

“Blake made the mistake of again suggesting an answer.  ’As many as sixty?’

“‘Yes, sixty or seventy,’ was the answer, like an echo.  Here Blake’s thought governed, but it was evident that the psychic had no clear conception of what this reference to Schumann meant in the first instance, for ‘E.  A.’ was unable to complete his sentence, which should have read:  ‘Have Schumann return a certain etude which I took. ­E.  A.’ Furthermore, the psychic evidently believed in the truth of the message or she would not have gone into it with such particularity; she would have been lacking in caution to have given me such definite and detailed information, knowing that it was all false.

“So far as my own mind is concerned, I had no knowledge of such a music publisher as Schumann.  Smart I had met.  Blake, however, knew of both firms.  The entire message and the method of its communication were deeply exciting at the time, and completed what seemed like a highly intellectual test of identity, and we both left the house of the psychic with a feeling of having been very near to our dead friend.

“‘To identify one of these bars of music would be a good test,’ said Blake, ‘but to find that etude at Schumann’s would be a triumph.’

“‘To find the manuscript fragment would be still more convincing,’ was my answer.

“Imagine my disappointment when, in answer to my inquiry, Schumann replied that no such etude had ever been in his hands, and Alexander’s family reported that no fragment called ‘Unghere’ could be found among the composer’s manuscripts.”

Fowler shared my regret.  “What about the other messages?  Were they all disappointing?”

“No; some of them were not.  The most intimate were true; and a signature which came on the slate under test conditions, and which I valued very little at the moment, turned out to be almost the exact duplicate of Alexander’s signature as he used to write it when a youth twenty years ago.  As a matter of fact, it closely resembled the signature appended to a framed letter which used to hang upon the wall of his study.  But, even so, its reproduction under these conditions is sufficiently puzzling.”

“What was Blake’s conclusion?  Did he put the same value upon it all that you did?”

“Yes, I think he was quite as deeply impressed as I. He said the music seemed like Alexander’s music, somehow distorted by the medium through which it came.  ’It was like seeing Alexander through a pane of crinkly glass,’ he put it.  And he added:  ’I had the sense of being in long-distance contact with the composer himself.’  He had no doubt of the supernormal means through which our writing came, but he remains doubtful of the value of the music as evidence of ‘Ernest’s’ return from the world of shadows.”

“Have you tried to secure more of the music?” Fowler asked.

“No, not specifically; but I’ve had one further inconclusive sitting since then with Mrs. Hartley.  Almost immediately ‘Ernest’ whispered a greeting and said:  ’I want to go on with that music, Garland.  I want to put B and D and A into the first bar ­it’s only a bare sketch as it stands.’

“To this I replied:  ’I can’t do it, ‘Ernest.’  It’s beyond me.  Wait till I can get Blake again.’

“This ended his attempt, although he was ‘terribly anxious,’ so the psychic said.  I am going to try for the completion of this score through another psychic.  If I can get that eighth bar taken up and carried on by ‘Ernest’ through another psychic the case will become complicated.

“I have gone into detail in my account of this experiment, for the reason that it illustrates very aptly the inextricable tangle of truth and error which most ‘spirit communications’ present.  It typifies in little the elusive problem of spirit identification which many a veteran investigator is still at work upon, after years of study.  Maxwell gives a case of long-continued unintentional and unconscious deception of the general kind which went far to prevent his acceptance of the spirit hypothesis.”

“I don’t think the failure to find the musical fragment invalidates this beautiful communication,” declared Fowler.  “You admit that many of the messages were to the point, and that some of them were very intimate and personal.”

“Yes, speaking generally, I would say that ‘E.  A.’ might have uttered all the words and dictated all the messages except those that related to the publishing matter; but there is the final test.  Schumann declares that no such manuscript has ever been in his hands.”

“He may be mistaken, or ‘E.  A.’ may have misspoken himself ­for, as William James infers, the spirits find themselves tremendously hampered in their attempts to manifest themselves.  Furthermore, you say you could not hear all that ‘E.  A.’ spoke ­you or the psychic may have misunderstood him.  In any case, it all seems to me a fine attempt at identification.”

“I wish I could put the same value on it now that I did when Blake played the first bar of that thrilling little melody; but I can’t.  As it recedes it loses its power over me.”

“What did Alexander’s family think of the music?”

“They thought it more like a Cheyenne or Omaha love-song than like a melody of ‘Ernest’s’ own composition.”

“But that only adds to the mystery of the mental process,” objected Miller.  “That supposes it to have come out of your mind.”

“I can’t believe that I had any hand in the musical part of it, and I can’t persuade myself that my dead friend was present.”

“Suppose you had been able to find that musical fragment, would it have converted you?” This was Miller’s challenge.

“No, for even then some living person might have known of it ­must have known of it; and if a knowledge of it lay in some other mind, no matter where and no matter how deeply buried in the subconscious, that knowledge, according to Myers and Hudson, would have been accessible to the supernormal perception of the psychic.”

Fowler interrogated me:  “But suppose a phantom form resembling ‘E.  A.’ had spoken these things to you face to face ­what then?”

“I would not have believed, even then.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one reason, belief is not a matter of the will; it is not even dependent upon evidence.”

Miller interrupted me.  “I am interested in the writing.  How do you account for the writing?  As I understand it, the psychic did not, in some instances, touch the slate while the writing was going on.  Are you sure of Blake?”

“Blake is as much to be trusted as I am.  No, I am forced to a practical acceptance of the theory of the fluidic arm, and yet this is a most astounding admission.  We must suppose that the psychic was able to read our minds and write down our mingled and confused musical conceptions by means of a supernumerary hand.  It happens that I have since seen these etheric hands in action, which makes it easier for me to conceive of such a process.  I have seen them dart forth from another medium precisely as described by Scarpa.  I have seen them lift a glass of water, and I have had them touch my knees beneath a table while slate-writing was going on ­so that, given the power to read my mind, there is nothing impossible (having regard to Bottazzi’s definite experiments) in the idea of the etheric hand’s setting down the music and reproducing the signature of ‘E.  A.’  In fact, at a recent sitting in a private house with a young male psychic, we had this precise feat performed.  Said the psychic to our host, Dr. Towne, ’Think hard of a signature that is very familiar to you,’ and Dr. Towne fixed his mind upon the signature of his brother, and immediately, while the young man’s material hands were controlled, his etheric hand seized a pencil in the middle of the table and reproduced the signature.”

“Could you see this hand?” Miller asked.

“Not in this case; but at a sitting which followed this, during such time as I sat beside the psychic and controlled one hand, I plainly saw the supernumerary arm and hand dart forth and seize a pencil.  I saw a hand very plainly cross my knee and grasp me by the forearm.  All of this has its bearing upon this very curious phenomenon of the reproduction of ‘E.  A’s.’ youthful signature, which remained very puzzling to us all.”

“But did you not say that ‘E.  A.’ at times represented an opposing will?” questioned Fowler ­“that he disputed certain passages with Blake, and that he finally carried his point in opposition to every mind in the circle?”

“Yes, that happened several times, and was all very convincing at the time.  And yet this opposition may have been more apparent than real.  It may have concerned our conscious wills only; our subconscious selves may have been in accord, working together as one.”

Fowler was a bit irritated.  “If you are disposed to make the subconscious will all-powerful and omniscient, nothing can be proved.  It seems to me an evasion.  However, let me ask how you would explain away a spirit form carrying the voice, the features, and the musical genius of ’E.  A.’?”

“Well, there is the teleplastic theory of Albert de Rochas.  He claims to have been able not merely to cause a hypnotized subject to exteriorize her astral self, but to mould this vapory substance as a sculptor models wax.  So I can imagine that a momentary radiant apparition might have been created in the image of my sister or ‘David’ or ‘E.  A.’”

“To my thinking, that is more complicated and incredible than the spirit hypothesis,” objected Fowler.

“Nothing can be more incredible to me than the spirit hypothesis,” I replied.  “But, then, everything is incredible in the last analysis.  I am the more disposed to believe in the teleplastic theory, for the reason that I have recently had an opportunity to witness a particularly incredible thing:  the materialization of a complete human form outside the cabinet and beside the psychic ­a phenomenon which has a special bearing upon the matter of identity which we are discussing.  The sitting took place in a small private house here in the city.  The psychic in the case was a young business man who is careful not to advertise his power.  For four years he has been holding secret developing circles whereto a few of his friends only are invited.  I was present last Sunday, and shared in the marvels.  The place of the séance was the parlor of his apartment, his young wife and little daughter being present.  There was, in addition, an elderly lady, mother-in-law of the psychic, and a Polish student whom I will call Jacob.  I am quite sure that no one else entered or left the room during the evening.  Mrs. Pratt, the mother-in-law, occupied a seat between me and Jacob.  The little girl sat at the window, and was under my eye all the time.  The wife spent most of the evening at the piano on my right.  The room was fairly dark, though the light of a far-away street lamp shone in at the window.

“The psychic retired into a little alcove bedroom, which served as cabinet, and the curtain had hardly fallen between him and our group when the spirit voices began.  The first one to speak was ‘Evan,’ the ‘guide,’ and I remarked that his voice was precisely like a falsetto disguise of the psychic’s own.

“Soon ‘Evan’ and other spirits appeared at the opening of the curtain.  The wife called them each by name, but I could see only certain curious fluctuating, cloud-like forms, like puffs of fire-lit steam.  The effect was not that of illuminated gauze, but more like illuminated vapor.  At length came one that spoke in a deep voice, using a foreign language.  Jacob, the young Pole, sprang up in joyous excitement, saying that he had sat many times in this little circle, but that this was the first time a spirit had spoken to him in his own tongue.  As they conversed together, I detected a close similarity of accent and of tone in their speech.  It certainly sounded like the Polish language, but I could not rid myself of the impression that the Pole was talking to himself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that the accent, inflection, and quality of the ghost’s voice were identical with that of the living man, and this became still more striking when, a little later, Jacob returned to his seat, and the ‘Count,’ his visitor, called for the Polish national hymn.  Jacob then sang, and the phantom sang with him.  Now this seemed like a clear case of identification, and was perfectly satisfactory to Jacob, but I had observed this fact:  the Pole was an indifferent singer ­having hard work to keep the key ­and the ‘Count’ was troubled in the same way.  His deep, almost toneless, singing struck me as a dead, flat, wooden echo of Jacob’s voice.  In short, it was as if the psychic had built up a personality partly out of himself, but mainly out of his Polish sitter, and as if this etheric duplication were singing in unison with its progenitor.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Fowler.

“Did he manufacture a double out of you?” queried Miller.

“No one spoke to me from the shadow, except the ‘guide,’ although I was hoping for some new word from ‘Ernest,’ and kept him uppermost in my mind.  A form came out into the centre of the room, which the wife said was ‘Evan,’ and requested me to shake his hand.  This I did.  The hand felt as if it were covered with some gauzy veiling.  My belief is that it was the psychic himself who stood before me, probably in trance.  I could see nothing, however.  I do not remember that I could detect any shadow even; but the hand was real, and the voice and manner of speech were precisely those of the psychic himself.”

“I repeat that this does not necessarily imply fraud, for the mind and vocal organs of the psychic are often used in that way,” Fowler argued.

“I grant that.  Up to this point I had been able to see nothing but dim outlines.  But toward the end of the evening the psychic advanced from the cabinet and in a dazed way ordered the lamp to be lit.  This was done.  He then asked that it be turned low.  This was also done.  Thereupon, directing his gaze toward the curtain, he called twice in a tone of command, ‘Come out!’

“I could place every one in the room at the moment.  I could see the psychic distinctly.  I could discern the color of his coat and the expression of his face.  He stood at least six feet from the opening in the curtain.  At his second cry, in which I detected a note of entreaty, I saw a luminous form, taller than himself, suddenly appear before the curtain and stand bowing in silence.  I could perceive neither face, eyes, nor feet, but I could make out the arms under the shining robe, the shape of the head and the shoulders, and as he bowed I could see the bending of his neck.  It certainly was not a clothes-horse.  The covering was not so much a robe as a swathing, and we had time to discuss it briefly.

“However, my eyes were mainly busy with the psychic, whose actions impressed me deeply.  He had the air of an anxious man undergoing a dangerous ordeal.  His right hand was stretched stiffly toward the phantom, his left was held near his heart; his knees seemed to tremble, and his body appeared to be irresistibly drawn toward the cabinet.  Slowly, watchfully, fearfully, he approached the phantom.  The figure turned toward him, and a moment later they met ­they clung together, they appeared to coalesce, and the psychic fell through the curtain to the floor of the cabinet, like a man smitten with death.”

“What do you wish to imply?” asked Miller.  “Do you mean that the man and the ghost were united in some way?”

“Precisely so.  The ‘spirit’ seemed drawn by some magnetic force toward the psychic, and the psychic seemed under an immense strain to keep the apparition exterior to himself.  When they met the spectre vanished, and the psychic’s fall seemed inevitable ­a collapse from utter exhaustion.  I was at the moment convinced that I had seen a vaporous entity born of the medium.  It seemed a clear case of projection of the astral body.  In the pause which followed the psychic’s fall the young wife turned to me and said:  ’Sometimes, if my husband does not reach the spirit form in time, he falls outside the curtain.’  She did not seem especially alarmed.

“The young psychic himself, however, told me afterward that he was undergoing a tremendous strain as he stood there commanding the spirit to appear.  ‘I had a fierce pain in the centre of my forehead,’ he said.  ’I couldn’t get my breath.  I felt as if all my substance, my strength, was being drawn out of me.  My legs seemed about to give way.  It is always hard to produce a form so far away from me when I am on the outside of the cabinet in the light.  The greater the distance, the greater the strain.’  I asked him what happened when he and the form rushed together, and he answered:  ’As soon as I touched it, it re-entered my body.’"

“I wonder why the spirits are always clothed in that luminous gauze?” queried Miller.

“They are not,” replied Fowler.  “More often they come in the clothing which was their habitual wear.”

“I asked this young psychic if drapery were used out of respect to us mortals, and he replied:  ’No; the forms are swathed not from sense of propriety so much as to protect the body, which is often incomplete at the extremities.’  The wife and Jacob told me that at one of their meetings a naked Hercules suddenly appeared before the curtain.  The Pole declared:  ’He was of giant size and strength.  I felt of his muscles (he was clothed only in a loincloth), and I closely studied his tremendous arms and shoulders.  The medium, as you know, is a small, thin man.  We called this figure “the man from Mars.”  He was at least six feet high, and strong as a lion.  He rushed back into the cabinet, and came out holding the medium above his head on his upraised palms.  It was very wonderful.’”

“You didn’t see anything like that, did you?” asked Miller.

“No,” I replied; “but I did see the development of a figure apparently from the floor between me and the curtain of the cabinet.  My attention was called to something wavering, shimmering, and fluctuating about a foot above the carpet.  It was neither steam nor flame.  It seemed compounded of both luminous vapor and puffing clouds of drapery.  It rose and fell in quivering impulses, expanding and contracting, but continuing to grow until at last it towered to the height of a tall man, and I could dimly discern, through dark draperies edged with light, a man’s figure.

“‘This,’ the young wife said, ’is Judge White, the grandfather of the psychic,’ and she conversed with him, but only for a few moments.  He soon dwindled and faded and melted away in the same fashion as he had come, recalling to my mind Richet’s description of the birth and disappearance of ‘B.  B.,’ in Algiers.  I know this sounds like the veriest dreaming, but you must remember that materializations much more wonderful have been seen and analyzed in the clinical laboratories of Turin and Naples.  Morselli, Bottazzi, Lombroso, Porro, and Foa have been confronted by similar apparitions.  They saw ‘sinister’ faces, and were repelled by ‘Satanic hands agile and prompt’ in cabinets of their own construction, surrounded by their own registering machinery, and Richet photographed just such figures as this I have described.

“The question with me is not, Do these forms exist? but, What produces them?  I am describing this sitting to explain what I mean by the ideoplastic or teleplastic theory.  If, for example, this psychic had known me well enough to have had a very definite picture of ‘E.  A.,’ he might have been able to model from the mind-stuff that he or the circle had thrown off, a luminous image of my friend, and, aided by my subconscious self, might have united the presence and the musical thought of Ernest Alexander.”

“It won’t do!” exclaimed Miller.  “It’s all too destructive, too preposterous!”

“I insist that the spirit hypothesis is simpler,” repeated Fowler.

“It isn’t a question of simplicity,” I retorted.  “It’s a question of fact.  If the observations of scientific experimentalists are of any value, the teleplastic theory is on the point of winning acceptance.”

“I will not admit that,” rejoined Fowler.  “For, even if you throw out all the enormous mass of evidence accumulated by spiritistic investigators, you still have the conversion of Wallace, Lodge, and Lombroso, not to speak of De Vesme, Venzano, and other well-known men of science, to account for.  Even Crookes himself admits that nothing but some form of spirit hypothesis is capable of explaining all the phenomena; and in a recent issue of the Annals of Psychic Science Lombroso writes a paper making several very strong points against the biologic theory.  One of these is the simultaneous occurrence of phenomena.  ‘Can the subconscious self act in several places at once?’ he asks.  A second objection lies in the fact that movements occur in opposition to the will of the psychic ­as, for example, when Eusapia was transported in her chair.  ‘Can a man lift himself by his boot-straps?’ is the question.  ’The centre of gravity of a body cannot be altered in space unless acted upon by an external force.  Therefore, the phenomena of levitation cannot be considered to be produced by energy emanating from the medium.’”

“I don’t think that follows,” I argued.  “Force may be exerted unconsciously and invisibly.  Because the psychic does not consciously will to do a certain thing is no proof that the action does not originate in the deeps of her personality.  We know very little of this obscure region of our minds.”

Fowler was ready with his answer:  “But let us take the case that Lombroso cites of the beautiful woman spirit whose hand twice dashed the photographic plates from the grasp of those who wished to secure her picture.  Here was plainly an opposing will, for the psychic was lending herself to the experiment, and the spectators were eager for its success.  Notwithstanding which co-operation this phantom bitterly opposed the wishes of every one present, and it was afterward learned that there was a special reason why she did not wish to leave positive proofs of her identity.  ‘It is evident, therefore,’ concludes Lombroso, ‘that a third will can intervene in spiritistic phenomena.’

“Furthermore, Dr. Venzano, as well as De Vesme, have taken up the same body of facts upon which Foa and Morselli base their theory, and arrive at a totally different conclusion.  They call attention to a dozen events that can be explained only on the theory of discarnate intelligences.  Venzano observed that the forms occurred in several places at once, that they appeared in many shapes and many guises.  Some were like children, some had curly hair, some had beards.  In one case identification was made by introducing the finger of one of the sitters within the phantom mouth to prove the loss of a molar tooth.  Sometimes the hair of these heads was plaited like that of a girl.  Some of the hands were large and black, others fair and pink ­like a child’s.  In short, he argues that the medium could not have determined the size, shape, or color of the phantoms.”

“All that does not really militate against the ideoplastic theory,” I retorted.  “It is as easy to produce a phantom with hair plaited as it is to produce one with hair in curls.  If it is a case of the modelling of the etheric vapor by the mind of the psychic, these differences would be produced naturally enough.  The forcible handling of the medium by the invisible ones is a much more difficult thing for me to explain, for to imagine the psychic emitting a form of force which afterward proceeds to raise the psychic herself against her will ­as Mrs. Smiley testifies happened again and again in her youth ­is to do violence to all that we know of natural law.  And yet it may be that the etheric double is able to take on part of the forces resident in the circle of sitters, and so become immensely more potent than the psychic himself, as in the case of the ’Man from Mars’ ­the Hercules I have just been telling you about.  Then, as to the content of these messages, they may be impulses, hints, fragments of sentences caught from the air as one wireless operator intercepts communications meant for other stations than his own.  So that my interview with ‘E.  A.’ may have been a compounding of the psychic, Blake, and myself, and fugitive natures afloat in the ether.  In fact, I am not as near a belief in the return of the dead as I was when I began this last series of experiments.  These Italian scientific observers, I confess, have profoundly affected my thought.”

“Your idea is, then,” said Miller, “that these apparitions are emanations of the medium’s physical substance, moulded by his will and colored by the minds of his sitters?”

“That is the up-to-date theory, and everything that I have experienced seems capable of a biologic interpretation against it.”

Fowler hastened to weaken the force of this statement.  “Spiritists all admit that the forms of spirits are made up ­partly, at least ­of the psychic’s material self, but that does not prove that the mind of the ghost is not a separate entity from that of the psychic.  I grant that the only difference between the psycho-dynamic theory and the spiritualistic theory lies in the question of the origin of the intelligences that direct the manifestation.  Foa would say they spring from the subconscious self of the psychic.  We say they come from the spirit world, and there we stand.”

Miller’s words were keen and without emotion.  “Until all phenomena are explained there will be obscure happenings and things to be explained by some one who can, but it is no final explanation to say ‘a man did it’ or ‘an intelligence did it.’  I have often been told that things cannot move in certain ways or certain things cannot be done except by intelligent action or guidance, but it may be remembered that Kepler thought guiding spirits were needful for making the planets move in their elliptical orbits.”

“Your scientists are feeding millions of people stones,” exclaimed Fowler.  “They ask for bread, and you give them slices of granite.”

“Better granite than slime,” said Miller.  “I am with the biologists in this campaign.  Let us have the truth, no matter how unpalatable it may be.  If these phenomena exist, they are in the domain of natural law and can be weighed and measured.  If they are imaginary, they should be swept away, like other dreams of superstition and ignorance.”

Fowler was not to be silenced.  “I predict that you and your like will yet be forced, like Lombroso, to take your place with Aksakof, Lodge, Wallace, Du Prel, and Crookes, who have come to admit the intervention of discarnate intelligences.  Lombroso says, ’We find, as I already foresaw some years ago, that these materialized bodies belong to the radiant state of matter, which has now a sure foothold in science.  This is the only hypothesis that can reconcile the ancient and universal belief in the persistence of some manifestation of life after death with the results of science.’  He adds:  ’These beings, or remnants of beings, would not be able to obtain complete consistency to incarnate themselves, if they did not temporarily borrow a part of the medium. But to borrow force from the medium is not the same thing as to be identical with the medium.’”

“Well,” said I, “of this I am certain:  we cannot afford to ignore such experiments as those of Morselli and Bottazzi.  I am aware that many investigators discountenance such experiments, but I believe with Venzano that the physical phenomena of mediumship cannot be, and ought not to be, considered trivial.  It was the spasmodic movement of a decapitated frog that resulted in the discovery of the Voltaic Pile.  Furthermore, I intend to try every other conceivable hypothesis before accepting that of the spiritists.”

“What is your reason for that?” asked Fowler.

“Because I am a scientist in my sympathies.  I believe in the methods of the chemist and the electrician.  I prefer the experimenter to the theorist.  I like the calm, clear, concise statements of these European savans, who approach the subject, not as bereaved persons, but as biologists.  I am ready to go wherever science leads, and I should be very glad to know that our life here is but a link in the chain of existence.  Others may have more convincing knowledge than I, but at this present moment the weight of evidence seems to me to be on the side of the theory that mediumship is, after all, a question of unexplored human biology.”

“I don’t see it that way,” rejoined Fowler, calmly.  “Suppose your biologists prove that the psychic can put forth a supernumerary arm, or maintain, for a short time, a complete double of herself.  Would that necessarily make the spiritist theory untenable?  Is it not fair to conclude that if the soul or ‘astral’ or ‘etheric double’ can act outside the living body, it can live and think and manifest after the dissolution of its material shell?  Does not the experimental work of Bottazzi, Morselli, and De Rochas all make for a spiritual interpretation of life rather than for the position of the materialist?  I consider that they have strengthened rather than weakened the mystic side of the universe.  They are bringing the wonder of the world back to the positivist.  Let them go on.  They will yet demonstrate, in spite of themselves, the immortality of the soul.”

“I hope they will,” I replied.  “It would be glorious at this time, when tradition begins to fail of power, to have a demonstration of immortality come through the methods of experimental science.  Certainly I would welcome a physical proof that my mother still thinks and lives, and that Ernest and other of my dearest friends are at work on other planes and surrounded by other conditions, no matter how different from the conventional idea of paradise these environments might be; but the proof must be ample and very definite.”

Miller put in a last word of warning:  “Because a phenomenon has not been explained, and no one knows how to explain it, is no reason for supposing there is anything extraphysical about it.  No one has explained the first cause of the development of an embryo.  No one knows what goes on in an active nerve, or why atoms are selective in their associates.  Ignorance is not a proper basis for speculation, and if one must have a theory, let it be one having some obvious continuity with our best physical knowledge.”

And at that point our argument rested.  We separated, and each went his way, to be met by questions of business and politics, and to be once more blended to the all-enveloping mystery of life.