Without Prejudice

A. 'Ha! Do you know who wrote 'Othello'?'

B. 'No, that I don't.'

A. 'Do you know who wrote 'Macbeth'?'

B. 'Now you ask me something!'

A. (speculating sadly on the vanity of fame and the absurdity of being a national bard, but determined to vindicate a brother author) ''Othello' and 'Macbeth' were written by Shakespeare,'

B. (unmoved) 'Ah! that's the man that wrote 'Taming of the Shrew,' isn't it?'

A. (astonished) 'Yes.'

So the Author went to see the thick play, and found he knew Lady Macbeth, nay, had-by an odd episode-first seen her in dressing-gown and curl-papers; so, presuming upon this intimate acquaintanceship, he got himself bidden to the Banquet-in less Shakespearian language, he went to supper. The Banquet was uninterrupted by Banquos or other bogies. Lady Macbeth-in a Parisian art-gown-sipped milk after her bloody exertions, and listened graciously, her fair young head haloed in smoke, to her guest's comparison of herself with Mrs. Siddons. But Lady Macbeth's Chaperon was a Medium, self-made, and when the compliments and the supper had been cleared away, the Medium kindly proposed to exhibit her newly-discovered prowess with the Planchette. The Planchette, as everybody knows, and as I didn't know myself till I saw it, is a wooden heart that runs on two hind wheels, and has a pencil stuck through the centre of its apex. The Medium gracefully places her hand upon the heart, which after an interval of Quaker-like meditation begins to write, as abruptly as a Quaker is moved by the Spirit, and as abruptly finishes.

AUTHOR. 'What do I want to do early to-morrow morning?'

What was in his mind was: 'Send a wire to Manchester.' The Planchette almost instantly scribbled: 'Send a telegram to your brother.' Now, his brother was connected with the matter; and although at the time he considered the Planchette half wrong, yet in the morning, after reconsidering the question, the Author actually did send the wire to his brother instead. Sundry other things did the Planchette write, mostly wise, but sometimes foolish. It did not hesitate, for example, over the publisher of a certain anonymous book, but failed to give the title, though it wrote glibly, 'Children of Night.' These results were sufficiently startling to invite further investigation, so the trio next proceeded to 'call spirits from the vasty deep' by making a circle of their thirty fingers upon a wooden table. Very soon the table gave signs of upheaval, while some cobbling sprite fell to tapping merrily at his trade within its ligneous recesses. Lady Macbeth said that these taps denoted its readiness to hold communion with the grosser earth, and constituted its sole vocabulary. As in the game of Animal, Vegetable, and Mineral, its information was to be extracted by a series of queries admitting of 'yes' or 'no' in answer. One tap denoted 'no,' three 'yes,' and two 'doubtful.' It could also give numerical replies. The table or the sprite, having indicated its acquiescence in this code, proceeded to give a most satisfactory account of itself. It told the Author his age, the time of day, the date of the month, carefully allowing for its being past midnight (which none of the human trio had thought of); it was excellently posted on his private concerns, knowing the date of his projected visit to America, and the name of his past work and his future wife. Its orthography was impeccable, though its method was somewhat todious, for the Author had to run through the alphabet to provoke the sprite into tapping at any particular letter. But one soon grew reconciled to its cumbrous methods, as though holding converse with a foreigner; and its remarks made up in emphasis what they lacked in brevity, and were given with exemplary promptitude. Interrogated as to its own personality, it declared it was an unborn spirit, destined to be born in ten years. 'Do you know what makes you be born?' inquired the Author. 'Yes,' it replied. 'Will you tell us?' 'Yes.' 'Tell us, then.' 'F-O-R-C-E.' 'Is it God's force?' 'No.' 'Is He not omnipotent, then?' 'No.' 'What is the true religion?' 'Buddhism.' 'Do you mean Madame Blavatsky was right?' 'Yes.' 'Is there a heaven?' 'Yes.' 'A Hell?' 'No.' To hear a small still voice rapping, rapping in the silence of the small hours, rapping out the secrets of the universe, was weird enough. It was as though Milton's words were indeed inspired, and-

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth

Unseen.

'What!' thought the Author, 'shall the Great Secret which has puzzled so many heads-heads in caps and heads in turbans, heads in bonnets and heads in berettas, as Heine hath it-shall the explanation of the Universe, which baffled Aristotle, and puzzled Hegel, and still more his readers, be the property of this wretched little unborn babe, this infant rapping in the night, and with no language but a rap? Was, then, Wordsworth right, and is our birth 'but a sleep and a forgetting'?' And, mingled with these questionings, a sort of compassion for the poor orphan spirit, inarticulate and misunderstood, beating humbly at the gates of speech. Natheless was the Author quite incredulous, and even while he was listening reverently to these voices from Steadland, his cold cynic brain was revolving a scientific theory to account for the striking manifestations.

In the course of two or three seances, with lights turned low, but honesty burning high-for Lady Macbeth was guileless, and her Chaperon above suspicion,-various other 'spirits' hastened to be interviewed. There was 'Ma,' who afterwards turned out to be the Chaperon's 'Pa,' whose name-a queer French name-it gave in full. The Chaperon's 'Pa,' who was dead, announced he was no longer a widower, for his relief had just rejoined him on Wednesday-the 10th. This news of her mother's death was unknown to the Chaperon. In truth, 'Pa' is still a widower.

Another 'spirit'-a woman (who refused to give her age)-predicted that the amount of money taken at the theatre the next night would be (pounds)44. The actual returns on the morrow were (pounds)44 0_s. 6_d. But when, elated by its success, it prophesied (pounds)43, the returns were only (pounds)34. But this same creature, that gave only an inverted truth-perhaps it was momentarily controlled by the spirit of Oscar Wilde-displayed remarkable knowledge in other directions. Asked if it knew what piece had been played the week before in the theatre-a question that none of the three could have answered-it replied, ''The Road to --'' 'Do you mean 'The Road to Ruin'?' the Author interrupted eagerly, tired of its tedious letter-by-letter methods. 'No,' it responded vehemently; and finished, ''F-o-r-t-u-n-e.'' Lady Macbeth consulted the 'Era,' and sure enough 'The Road to Fortune' had preceded her own company. 'Can you tell us the piece to follow?' the author asked; and the 'spirit' responded readily ''The Pro--'' 'Do you mean 'The Professor's Love Story'?' the Author again interrupted. 'No; 'The Prodigal,'' answered the table. 'Ah! 'The Prodigal,'' echoed the Author, confounding it temporarily with 'The Profligate'; but the spirit dissented, and added, ''Daughter.'' There being no means of verifying this for the moment, the Author proceeded to inquire for the piece to follow that, and was unhesitatingly informed that it was 'The Bauble Shop.' 'Where is 'The Bauble Shop' now?' he inquired. The spirit amiably rapped out 'Eastbourne.' This was correct according to the 'Era.' Consulting the hoardings after leaving the house, the Author discovered that the other replies were quite exact, save for the fact that 'The Bauble Shop' was to come first and 'The Prodigal Daughter' second. Here was the paradoxical humour of this Oscar Wilde-ish 'spirit' again.

Endless was the information vouchsafed by these disembodied intelligences, in any language one pleased; and, although they at times displayed remarkable obstinacy, refusing to answer, or breaking off abruptly in the middle of a most interesting communication, as though they had been betrayed into indiscretion: yet, to speak generally, there was scarcely any topic on which they were not ready to discourse-past, present, or to come-and their remarks, whether accurate or not, were invariably logical, bearing an intelligible relation to the question. Even sporting tips were obtainable without a fee, and Avington was given as the winner of the Liverpool Cup, though the Author had never heard of him, and the other two were not aware he was booked for the race, still less that he was the favourite. In the sequel he only came second. Real tips did the 'spirits' give, tipping the table vehemently. They were also very obedient to commands, moving or lifting the table in whatsoever direction the Author ordered, much as though they were men from Maple's; and when he willed them to raise it, the united forces of Lady Macbeth and Lady Macbeth's Chaperon could not easily depress its spirits. Nor did they contradict one another. There was a cheerful unanimity about the Author's dying at fifty-seven. But this did not perturb the Author, whose questions were all cunningly contrived to test his theory of the 'spiritual world.' For instance, he set them naming cards, placed on the table with faces downwards and unknown to anybody; arguing that with their bloated omniscience they could scarcely fail to name a card shoved under their very noses. Nor did they- altogether. Most began well, but were spoiled by success. However, here is the record performance-eight consecutive attempts of the table to give the 'correct card' under the imposition of the hands of the Chaperon and the Author only, neither knowing the card till it was turned up to verify the table's assertion:

TABLE'S CARD. ACTUAL CARD.

1. Jack of Diamonds . . . Queen of Spades.

2. Jack of Diamonds . . . Jack of Diamonds.