They come into my brain unbidden, they clamour to be written, yet when I take my pen in hand they are gone.It is as though they were shy of publicity, as though they would say to me--"You alone, you shall read us, but you must not write us; we are too real, too true.
We are like the thoughts you cannot speak.Perhaps a little later, when you know more of life, then you shall tell us."Next to these in merit I would place, were I writing a critical essay on myself, the stories I have begun to write and that remain unfinished, why I cannot explain to myself.They are good stories, most of them; better far than the stories I have accomplished.
Another time, perhaps, if you care to listen, I will tell you the beginning of one or two and you shall judge.Strangely enough, for I have always regarded myself as a practical, commonsensed man, so many of these still-born children of my mind I find, on looking through the cupboard where their thin bodies lie, are ghost stories.
I suppose the hope of ghosts is with us all.The world grows somewhat interesting to us heirs of all the ages.Year by year, Science with broom and duster tears down the moth-worn tapestry, forces the doors of the locked chambers, lets light into the secret stairways, cleans out the dungeons, explores the hidden passages--finding everywhere only dust.This echoing old castle, the world, so full of mystery in the days when we were children, is losing somewhat its charm for us as we grow older.The king sleeps no longer in the hollow of the hills.We have tunnelled through his mountain chamber.We have shivered his beard with our pick.We have driven the gods from Olympus.No wanderer through the moonlit groves now fears or hopes the sweet, death-giving gleam of Aphrodite's face.Thor's hammer echoes not among the peaks--'tis but the thunder of the excursion train.We have swept the woods of the fairies.We have filtered the sea of its nymphs.Even the ghosts are leaving us, chased by the Psychical Research Society.
Perhaps of all, they are the least, however, to be regretted.They were dull old fellows, clanking their rusty chains and groaning and sighing.Let them go.
And yet how interesting they might be, if only they would.The old gentleman in the coat of mail, who lived in King John's reign, who was murdered, so they say, on the outskirts of the very wood I can see from my window as I write--stabbed in the back, poor gentleman, as he was riding home, his body flung into the moat that to this day is called Tor's tomb.Dry enough it is now, and the primroses love its steep banks; but a gloomy enough place in those days, no doubt, with its twenty feet of stagnant water.Why does he haunt the forest paths at night, as they tell me he does, frightening the children out of their wits, blanching the faces and stilling the laughter of the peasant lads and lasses, slouching home from the village dance? Instead, why does he not come up here and talk to me? He should have my easy-chair and welcome, would he only be cheerful and companionable.
What brave tales could he not tell me.He fought in the first Crusade, heard the clarion voice of Peter, met the great Godfrey face to face, stood, hand on sword-hilt, at Runny-mede, perhaps.
Better than a whole library of historical novels would an evening's chat be with such a ghost.What has he done with his eight hundred years of death? where has he been? what has he seen? Maybe he has visited Mars; has spoken to the strange spirits who can live in the liquid fires of Jupiter.What has he learned of the great secret?
Has he found the truth? or is he, even as I, a wanderer still seeking the unknown?
You, poor, pale, grey nun--they tell me that of midnights one may see your white face peering from the ruined belfry window, hear the clash of sword and shield among the cedar-trees beneath.
