“I now began to feel that there were two of me, so to speak. One recognized that this was all a delusion; the other self was alarmed and unstrung. I walked quietly but rapidly, attracting no attention. Looking at myself in a chance mirror I saw that in outward appearance I was the same as ever. Reaching the drug store by the Herald Office, I sat down completely unstrung, but my voice was steady as I asked for some Bromide of Potash, and the attendant gave me a dose in a glass of soda water at my request without remark. Having no excuse for remaining I reluctantly turned homeward, hoping that fatigue and the drug would dissipate my delusions. In vain! I no longer heard the dogging steps or saw the peeping men, but the voices were louder and more confusing in a perfect chorus of commonplace talk, intensified in volume. Arrived home, I took another dose of Bromide and threw myself on the bed. Instantly it seemed to sink under me and then rose violently. I rose, lit the gas and my cigar, but the voices began again in the next room. Though tired out, I sought the street again. By this time the sense of being ‘double’ was intensified, and I recognized with anger that my higher self was under the control of a lower portion which it ridiculed and reprobated. I walked up Broadway this time, and as I passed the hotels from doors and windows came invitations to drink, to dine, to play billiards and less innocent suggestions. A man and woman came towards me, and I was amazed at the breadth, or depth of their conversation, ranging over topics not whispered in general, much less proclaimed on the highway, yet as I met them I saw that their lips moved not; with heads bent slightly against the keen air of the winter morning they sped silently on their way. Jeers and mockeries saluted me from the cab stands, yet the cabbies dozed on their boxes. Hour after hour I walked thus, ready to drop with hunger and fatigue but unable to stop. At last in the cold grey of the morning I returned home, took a tub and a meal, and went to my Doctor, having heard the irrational tumult of voices all the while. The Doctor was vastly amused at some points of my narration; he thought my cat might be D. T. but could make nothing out of all the rest except a threatening of insanity, and giving me some beastly powders, advised me to live quietly, and keep out of doors as much as possible. I attended to my routine business, all the time hearing the voices, except when someone addressed me. Getting restless as the day wore on I walked down along the East River piers, went on board vessels, into holds and engine rooms, climbed over cargo and chatted with stevedores. No one saw anything unusual about me; friends asked me to wine and dine, yet still the hateful voices mingled with the real ones till I hardly knew them apart and feared I should commit some noticeable indiscretion. The day passed in misery; as I got to my bed at last, a red setter appeared by my side. An inmate owned a dog of this species, and at first I thought this was he, but my door was locked and as I turned to him he vanished, which upset my nerves again. Again I sought my Doctor’s aid, and taking a second worse prescription, passed another hideous night in desperate wandering, ever with the voices at my ear. It was useless to try to sleep or even to lie down; my bed heaved like a ship in a tempest. The next day I passed at my office again or with any acquaintances I could muster, talking as much as possible in the hope of a brief respite from the maddening sounds. At last the medicines did their work; the next day found me clear headed, the sights and sounds of the astral plane had vanished; I don’t want to experience them again, but I believe in them, you bet! Later I found out what they really were when my life had wholly changed, and I had joined the Theosophical Society.”
The ladies turned on him with one voice. “You! A Theosophist! and you never told us!”
“Well,” said he humbly, “I tried hard, but—you never gave me a chance.”
Pretty Polly says that under cover of the laughter the Widow whispered to Didymus that she had thought he was trying to tell her something else. But I don’t believe it, for Didymus is still a bachelor; some say he is a chela.
In answer to queries, I would say that all occurrences related in this department are strictly true, as is the above experience of an F. T. S. communicated since the published invitation to correspondents in our last number. All such will be hospitably received by the Tea-Table. I may add further that “Julius” is now the name of a department merely; though it has at times sheltered groups of personalities of both sexes, there has always been one fixed quantity directing these, and that’s he who now signs
Julius.
“These sons belong to me; this wealth belongs to me:” with such thoughts is a fool tormented. He himself does not belong to himself, much less sons and wealth.—Buddhaghosha Parables.
OM