GHOSTS I HAVE SEEN

AND OTHER PSYCHIC EXPERIENCES

BY

VIOLET TWEEDALE

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1919, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I "Silk Dress" and "Rumpus" 1

II The Ghost of Broughton Hall 14

III Curious Psychic Experiences 33

IV East End Days and Nights 48

V The Man in the Marylebone Road 66

VI The Ghost of Prince Charlie 74

VII Pilgrims and Strangers 91

VIII Some Strange Events 98

IX Pompey and the Duchess 114

X The Invisible Hands 124

XI Dawns 133

XII Peacock's Feathers—The Skeleton Hand at Monte Carlo 146

XIII I Commit Murder 157

XIV The Angel of Lourdes 175

XV The Wraith of the Army Gentleman 184

XVI An Austrian Adventure 197

XVII Across the Threshold 211

XVIII Haunted Rooms 221

XIX "The New Jeanne D'Arc" 241

XX Haunted Houses—"Castel A Mare" 251

XXI The Sequel 263

XXII The Haunted Lodge 276

XXIII Auras 291

XXIV Adieu 307

GHOSTS I HAVE SEEN

CHAPTER I

"SILK DRESS" AND "RUMPUS"

From the terrible conditions of the present I have turned back to the past, for a little joy and a great deliverance.

In the present one lives no longer from day to day, but from hour to hour, and even a fleeting memory of the joys that are no more refreshes the soul—wearied, and fainting with a pallid anxiety that wraith-like envelops the whole being in a thrall of sadness.

To-day I heard music which I had known and loved in the happy, careless long ago, and whilst I was lost in a dream of half-forgotten bliss I smelt the fragrance of mimosa flower. I cannot describe the sensations of joy that thrilled through my whole being. An involuntary moving of the spirit, an emergence into a dream world, described by the Greeks as "ecstasy." The music fashioned the invisible link, and I was back again on a hillside where the mimosa grew in native abundance. Now, one thinks of France only as a hideous battle plain, but memory, the true dispensator of time, is never bound by years. She keeps ever fresh, in glowing colors, those ideal moments that gather up the utter joys of life into one divine sheaf of memory.

It is not only for its great uses that we must have memory, but for its joys. It rends the gray veil shrouding present existence, and shows us life as what it really is. A phantasmagoria of wonder, wrapped in mystery.

The day of miracles is not past, it never will be past, but if you want miracles you must have the power of seeing