745 D. From Proceedings S.P.R., vol. v. p. 466. In the following case it is possible that a real person may have been mistaken for an apparition, but the details, as reported, tell strongly against this view. The account is given by Mrs. Clerke, 68 Redeliffe Square, S.W.

1884.

In the autumn of 1872, I stayed at Sorrento with my two daughters, and established myself for some months at the Hotel Columella, which stands on the high road, within half a mile of the town. My suite of apartments consisted of a large drawing-room, ante-room, and three bedrooms; it was shaped like the letter U, and each end opened on a large terrace. The hotel was kept by two men, Rafaelle and Angelo, and the service of the rooms was conducted by their wives, a family arrangement which worked harmoniously for the guests.

On the evening in question we left the dining-room before the tea was finished, anxious, after the heat of the day, to enjoy the freshness and beauty of the terrace. After a few moments, I returned to my bedroom to fetch a candlestick and a shawl, and so much disliked going that I loitered unreasonably after I said I would go. I entered the ante-room and passed through the long drawing-room, its porcelain tiling echoing my steps with a sharp creak, till I reached my bedroom door. One side of the door stood open; it was a doorway divided in two, or as the French say, a deux battants, and I resolved not to close it, as I perceived everything had been put in order for the night I got my shawl and my candlestick, and was preparing to return through the drawing-room, when, on turning towards the half-open door, I saw it filled by the figure of an old woman. She stood motionless, silent, immovable, framed by the doorway, with an expression of despairing sadness, such as I had never seen before. I don't know why I was frightened, but some idea of its being an imbecile or mad woman flashed through my mind, and in an unreasoning panic I turned from the drawing-room door, with its melancholy figure, and fled through the bedrooms to the terrace.

My daughter, on hearing of my fright, returned to the rooms, but all was in its wonted stillness; nothing was to be seen.

The next morning I spoke to the women of the house of the old woman who had come to my room, as I thought she might be in some way connected with the establishment, and they were dismayed at my account of her, and assured me that there was no one answering the description in the house. I perceived there was much consternation caused by my narration, but paid little attention to it at the time.

A fortnight afterwards we had a visit from the parish priest, a friend of our landlord, and the spiritual adviser of the family. At a loss for conversation, I told him of my visitor, who arrived punctually at 8 o'clock, "l'ora dei defunti." The padre listened to me with the greatest gravity, and said, after a pause:- "Madam, you have accurately described the old mistress of this house, who died, six months before you came, in the room over yours. The people of the hotel have been already with me about it; it has caused them much anxiety lest you should leave, and they recognised in your description the old padrona, as she was called".

This explained to me various presents of fruit and special attentions I had received. Nothing more came of it, and I saw the apparition no more. In our walks we looked for even some semblance of the dress in which the woman appeared, but never saw it. Short as my glance towards her was, I could have painted her likeness had I been an artist. She was pale, of the thick pallor of age, cold grey eyes, straight nose, thick bands of yellowish grey hair crossing her forehead. She wore a lace cap with the border closely quilted all round, a white handkerchief crossed over her chest, and a long white apron. Her face was expressionless, but fixed and sad. I could not think she had any knowledge of where she was, or who stood before her, and certainly, for breaking through the barrier of the unseen, it was a most objectless visit.

I ought to mention that I had no knowledge of there having been such a person in existence until her likeness stood at my bedroom door.

Kate M. Clerke.

In another letter Mrs. Clerke states that as far as she knew, the apparition had not been seen again, but that the women of the house were afraid afterwards of entering her room alone. She adds:-

The peculiarity of it is my literally describing a person whom I had never seen or known about. Every one was overwhelmed by the portraiture, even a lady who had seen the old mistress.

Mr. Podmore adds the following notes of an interview with Mrs. Clerke.

August 15th, 1884.

Called on Mrs. Clerke to-day. She told me that she had never believed in ghosts before, and now believed in very few besides her own. She was quite sure that the description she gave of the figure was detailed enough to be recognised. Indeed, the dress as she saw it, though like that actually worn by the old mistress, was not a common one in the district. Mrs. Clerke never saw one at all like it in Italy. When she saw the figure, the dress struck her as being like that of an old Irish nurse of hers, and she told her daughter so, when she rejoined them, adding that the face was quite unlike the nurse's. Miss Clerke confirmed this statement to me.

Mrs. Clerke admitted that it would have been quite possible for the figure which she saw, had it been that of a real woman, to have escaped. She is, however, quite convinced that she saw a ghost; partly because of the resemblance, partly because of the unreasonable terror which seized her when she saw the figure, for she is not a nervous woman naturally.

There were no noises or other disturbances in the house during their stay.

F. P.

747 A. The next case (taken from the Journal S.P.R., vol. vi. p. 27) is an instance of a kind of auditory hallucination, the hearing of music, that seems to occur much more rarely than the hearing of voices. Some similar cases - also associated with deaths - were published in Phantasms of the Living. (See vol. ii. pp. 221 and 223.) The fact that the sounds were heard collectively suggests at first sight that they may have been real - an explanation which it is always more difficult to exclude in auditory than in visual cases. But the whole circumstances, when closely examined, make this explanation an extremely unlikely one.

The following account was given by Miss Home, daughter of the percipient, in a letter to which Mrs. Home's signature was afterwards added, so that the account, though written in the third person, is really a first-hand one.

508 Union Street, Aberdeen, November 25th, 1890.

It is nearly thirty years ago now, but it is as vividly impressed on her memory, as if it had happened yesterday.

She was sitting in the dining-room (in a self-contained house), which was behind the drawing-room, with Jamie, my eldest brother, on her knee, who was then a baby scarcely two years old. The nurse had gone out for the afternoon, and there was no one in the house except the maid downstairs. The doors of the dining-room and drawing-room both happened to be open at the time. All at once she heard the most divine music, very sad and sweet, which lasted for about two minutes, then gradually died away. My brother jumped from mamma's knee, exclaiming "Papa! papa," and ran through to the drawing-room. Mamma felt as if she could not move and rang the bell for the servant, whom she told to go and see who was in the drawing-room. When she went into the room, she found my brother standing beside the piano and saying "No papa!" Why the child should have exclaimed these words was that papa was very musical, and used often to go straight to the piano when he came home. Such was the impression on mamma that she noted the time to a minute, and six weeks after she received a letter saying her sister had died at the Cape, and the time corresponded exactly to the minute that she had heard the music.

I may tell you that my aunt was a very fine musician.

[Miss] Emily M. Horne. (Signed) December 11th, 1890. [Mrs.] Eliza Horne.

In answer to further inquiries, Miss Home wrote:-

December 11th, 1890.

I am sorry to say the note, which mamma took at the time, has been lost, though she had it for more than twenty years after the event occurred.

The name of my aunt was Mary Sophia Ingles, she died on the 20th February 1861, at Durban, Natal. . . . Mamma bids me say that her note corresponded not only to the hour but to the minute of her sister's death.

This account is followed in the same Journal by another case of a collective hallucination of music heard a few hours after the funeral of a musician.