However, at present we are only on the threshold of these marvels, and we who are not engaged in the task of occult discovery can still be interested and entertained by "ghost stories" as ghost stories, and can discuss various points and form our own ideas about them. And there is one feature common to a great many of these supernatural tales and incidents which I think must strike everybody, whether believers or sceptics, and that is their apparent lack of purpose. There are, as we have seen, ghostly happenings which come as "warnings," though, as I have remarked in a former chapter, these warnings seldom appear to avert disaster. But in nine cases out of ten odd things are seen or heard, and nothing particular happens afterwards. The question—and a puzzling one—is, why should these things occur at all? Why should such a tremendous reversal of the laws which ordinarily govern our human environment take place, as is implied by, let us say, the extraordinary experience of Miss Travers at Glanwern, related in Chapter III? Of course in this volume I have tried to collect ghost stories that did mean something, as naturally they are the more interesting type of incident. But I have heard innumerable instances of people hearing and seeing strange things, followed by no particular consequences. Probably every one knows the kind of tale, interesting to the person concerned, but rather dull when related.
Perhaps the following illustration will help us to understand these inconsequent manifestations a little better. Let us imagine ourselves as the audience in a huge, well-lighted theatre. At least the auditorium is lit up, but the vast stage is in complete darkness, with a great shadowy curtain hiding anything that may be taking place behind it from our eyes. In fact, nobody troubles much about the stage at all, every one is talking and thinking of other things and few people so much as glance towards the curtain, though those who do dimly feel that there really is a play going on behind it, and some of us wish, in a vague sort of way, that we could know what it is. But sometimes the curtain goes up for a moment, and then, if any one is looking, he sees a glimpse of the play; and, not knowing what has come before or what is to follow, it seems rather meaningless, or even alarming. Sometimes, too, an actor will appear on the stage, or come amongst the audience with a message for one or a group of them, but only the few can see him, and his message is not always intelligible to them. Some bold people, tired of looking at the impenetrable curtain, have ventured to explore behind it, and if they escaped the dangers so braved, have tried to impart their experiences to their friends when they returned. But their accounts are often received with incredulity or lukewarm interest, some even asserting that there is really nothing at all behind the curtain, and that the explorers have merely been the victims of their own imaginations. And this they say, knowing quite well that when "carriages are called" they and every one else will have to leave the house by way of the dark stage, and be obliged to go behind the scenes and learn the mystery that the curtain hides.
In this simple illustration I have tried to convey the idea of a life—or perhaps I should rather say a Consciousness—coincident and connected with this life that we know, but separated from it by a difference of consciousness which the majority of us are not able at present to bridge. A few have done so, either by a system of mystic training, or by the natural gift of the "sixth sense," clairvoyance, second sight, whatever we like to call it, which in olden days often caused its possessors to be classed as magicians and witches. And if we grasp this idea of a consciousness, interwoven and yet by matter separated from this life, of which only a few of us can get glimpses from time to time, but which is as absolutely real, perhaps more so than the life we live here, it will help us enormously to understand the meaning of psychic phenomena, or what we call "ghost stories." Because we shall realise that there is continuity behind the veil which hides the Unseen, just as there is continuity in this life, and that the law of cause and effect goes with us "behind the scenes," just as it governs our present existence. So that we must cease to think of any supernatural incident as irrelevant or inconsequent, even if it means nothing to ourselves. It is just a glimpse—seen "through a glass darkly"—of a life organised on lines at present unfamiliar to our own, and infused with a meaning which we cannot trace, and which we yet feel has the most intimate connection with our life here.
However, these are paths of metaphysics, in which it is not well to linger, unless one can give time and all one's thoughts to their exploration. A little knowledge about occult matters is worse than useless; it is absolutely dangerous, and every furlong of the road that leads to such knowledge should be marked with a red signal, for it is strewn with the wrecked intellects of those who, unequipped, have lightly followed its windings.
Regarding the chapters in this book which concern Welsh superstitions, the first idea which occurred to me when reading them over was the exceedingly gloomy character of these ancient beliefs. They all seem to dwell morbidly on death and its surroundings, ignoring the lighter and happier side of life altogether. And any one who did not know Wales might imagine from reading these tales that the Welsh were a sullen and silent people, given to solitude and brooding. Nothing could be further from the truth; they are a lively and gregarious race and never seem to cease talking amongst themselves. Nobody is fonder of junketing than a Welshman or Welshwoman, nothing in the way of an outing comes amiss; fairs, eisteddfodau, "auctions," church and chapel festivals, political meetings, anything for a jaunt! But the most important functions of all are—funerals. Every one goes to a funeral, and makes it a point of honour to do so, for the more burials you attend in your lifetime, the greater are the number of people who will come to your own obsequies. I often think of the characteristic remark addressed by a Welshwoman I knew to an English neighbour, who had no taste for gadding, and found Cardiganshire rather triste. "Well indeed, Mrs. Brown fach, I am sorry for you; but indeed you should go about to fairs and funerals, and enjoy yourself."
So as funerals and the excitement connected with them really occupy a large place in the minds of the Welsh country-folk, it is perhaps not strange that superstition and folk-lore have collected round the subject and that omens and death warnings should be specially heeded and repeated. Also, in spite of lively manners and gregarious instincts, there is a curious strain of melancholy underlying the Welsh character, in common with the other Celtic races; a trait which I do not think any one can understand unless he has some Celtic blood in his veins. It is not a melancholy which colours the disposition, for most Welsh people are cheerful and pleasant companions. Of course there are variations from the type, and differences of temperament just as in other nationalities, but if asked suddenly to name a Welsh characteristic, I should at once mention cheerfulness. And yet they are melancholy; and if this sounds paradoxical, it cannot be helped, because it is true. It is the primitive sadness of an old, old race, the remembrance of
"Old unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago,"
inherited from tribal ancestors, and the days when life was a struggle even to the strong, and elementary passions held undisputed sway. So it is that the Welsh character unconsciously responds to all that touches this minor string in its nature, and, as it were, almost enjoys gloom and woe. This is the secret of the great religious revivals that from time to time agitate the Principality; the Welsh really relish their spiritual wretchedness, and enjoy being miserable sinners (especially in company!). And well does a revivalist like Evan Roberts understand his work, and the character of his congregations, and know how to twang that minor string. Not that I would jest at revivals; in many cases their influence has been for permanent good, and the kind of people they reach and benefit are no doubt those who require a spiritual "dressing-down" occasionally.
Nowadays, as I have said before, belief in corpse-candles, Toili, &c. has very much gone out of fashion amongst the country-folk; the present generation, having many of them been away to London or the large towns, are much too superior to believe such things, and it is difficult to get the old people to talk about them. But it is not so very long ago that such beliefs were really part of a Welsh person's life, and supernatural experiences only infrequent enough to be interesting. If John Jones entered the village inn trembling and perspiring declaring that he had seen the Toili—well, he had seen it, and no one thought of questioning his statement, but all fell to wondering "whose Toili" it could be. And it was not only among the lower classes that these beliefs obtained, their "betters" often shared them. The story is still told about here how a neighbouring squire, head of a well-known county family, saw the Toili in the twilight of a summer's evening, wending its way along the road which passed his house to the church.
The old gentleman who saw the vision has himself been dead for over sixty years, but the locality is probably quite unchanged from what it must have been in his day, and I have often thought when passing the spot how well the natural surroundings of romantic beauty lent themselves as a setting to any such weird happening, and have tried to conjure up the scene in my own mind. To this day it is said that when a death occurs in that particular family a corpse-light is always seen a few days previously, flickering and quivering up the drive from the direction of the churchyard.