730. But in certain cases of violent death there seems to have been an intention on the deceased person's part to show the condition in which his body is left. Such was Mrs. Storie's dream, or rather series of visions, referred to earlier in this chapter. Such, too, was Mrs. Menneer's dream (429 A), where the additional evidence obtained since our first publication of the case brings out a special meaning in the severed head, beyond the mere fact of decapitation. Such was an equally striking dream, which I have left for quotation in this place, because it forms a link between this group - where post-mortem knowledge of the body's aspect is in question - and the next following group, which will deal with the still stranger phenomenon of post-mortem knowledge of dissemination of the news of death. The case is taken from Proceedings S.P.R., vol. iii. (1885) p. 95.

Mr. D., the narrator, did not wish his name to be published, but Gurney saw him, and talked over the subject with him. Mr. D. narrates as follows:-

I am the owner of a very old mechanical business in Glasgow, with for twenty years past a branch in London, where I have resided for that period, and in both of which places my professional reputation is of the highest order.

Some thirty-five years ago I took into my employment a tender, delicate-looking boy, Robert Mackenzie, who, after some three or four years' service, suddenly left, as I found out afterwards, through the selfish advice of older hands, who practised this frightening away systematically to keep wages from being lowered, - a common device, I believe, among workmen in limited trades. Passing the gate of the great workhouse (Scottice poor-house) in the Parliamentary Road, a few years afterwards, my eye was caught by a youth of some eighteen years of age ravenously devouring a piece of dry bread on the public street, and bearing all the appearance of being in a chronic state of starvation. Fancying I knew his features, I asked if his name were not Mackenzie. He at once became much excited, addressed me by name, and informed me that he had no employment; that his father and mother, who formerly supported him, were now both inmates of the "poorhouse," to which he himself had no claim for admission, being young and without any bodily disqualification for work, and that he was literally homeless and starving. The matron, he informed me, gave him daily a piece of dry bread, but durst not, under the rules, give him regular maintenance.

In an agony of grief he deplored his ever leaving me under evil advice, and on my unexpectedly offering to take him back he burst into a transport of thanks, such as I cannot describe. Suffice it to say that he resumed his work, and that, under the circumstances, I did everything in my power to facilitate his progress. All this was mere matter of course; but the distinction between it and the common relations of master and servant was this, that on every occasion of my entering the workshop he never, so far as possible, took off his eyes from following my movements. Let me look towards him at any moment, there was the pale, sympathetic face with the large and wistful eyes, literally yearning towards me, as Smike's did towards Nicholas Nickleby. I seemed to be " the polar star of his existence," and this intensity of gratitude never appeared to lessen in degree through lapse of time. Beyond this he never ventured to express his feelings. His manhood, as it were, his individuality and self-assertion, seemed to have been crushed out of him by privations.

I was apparently his sole thought and consideration, saving the more common concerns of daily life.

In 1862 I settled in London, and have never been in Glasgow since. Robert Mackenzie, and my workmen generally, gradually lost their individuality in my recollection. About ten to twelve years ago my employees had their annual soiree and ball. This was always held, year after year, on a Friday evening. Mackenzie, ever shy and distant as usual, refused to mingle in the festivities, and begged of my foreman to be permitted to serve at the buffet. All went off well, and the Saturday was held (more workmen) as a succeeding day of festival. All this, however, I only learned after what I am now about to relate. On the Tuesday morning following, immediately before 8 a.m., in my house on Campden Hill, I had the following manifestation - I cannot call it a dream; but let me use the common phraseology. I dreamt, but with no vagueness as in common dreams, no blurring of outline or rapid passages from one thing disconnectedly to another, that I was seated at a desk, engaged in a business conversation with an unknown gentleman, who stood on my right hand. Towards me, in front, advanced Robert Mackenzie, and feeling annoyed, I addressed him with some asperity, asking him if he did not see that I was engaged.

He retired a short distance with exceeding reluctance, turned again to approach me, as if most desirous for an immediate colloquy, when I spoke to him still more sharply as to his want of manners. On this, the person with whom I was conversing took his leave, and Mackenzie once more came forward. "What is all this, Robert?" I asked somewhat angrily. "Did you not see I was engaged?" "Yes, sir," he replied; "but I must speak with you at once." "What about?" I said; " what is it that can be so important?" "I wish to tell you, sir," he answered, "that I am accused of doing a thing I did not do, and that I want you to know it, and to tell you so, and that you are to forgive me for what I am blamed for, because I am innocent." Then, "I did not do the thing they say I did." I said, "What?" getting same answer. I then naturally asked, "But how can I forgive you if you do not tell me what you are accused of?" I can never forget the emphatic manner of his answer in the Scottish dialect, "Ye'll sune ken" (you'll soon know). This question and the answer were repeated at least twice - I am certain the answer was repeated thrice, in the most fervid tone.

On that I awoke, and was in that state of surprise and bewilderment which such a remarkable dream, qua mere dream, might induce, and was wondering what it all meant, when my wife burst into my bedroom, much excited, and holding an open letter in her hand, exclaimed, "Oh, James, here's a terrible end to the workmen's ball - Robert Mackenzie has committed suicide!" With now a full conviction of the meaning of the vision, I at once quietly and firmly said, "No, he has not committed suicide." "How can you possibly know that?" "Because he has just been here to tell me".