It was an easy matter for C. Peterson to appear in a vision to the only one who had shown any sympathy and kindness toward him during his illness, and his landlady being asleep, was functioning in her astral body, which becomes a vehicle of consciousness, and as there was sympathy between the two it was possible for her to retain her astral vision in waking suddenly as she did.
The dead are not dead at all, as many imagine. This man is only physically dead because he has lost his physical body. He is not intellectually and emotionally dead because he has not lost that part of his mechanism of consciousness which is the seat of thought and emotion. The physical body only allows us to express ourselves in the physical world, but it is not the man, any more than the clothes he wears.
Extract from the Sunday Herald-Examiner, May 8, 1921:
NEW GHOSTS ARE WRITING POETRY BY UNIVERSAL SERVICE.
Paris, May 7.—Can a ghost write poetry? You betcha, says Baron Maurice de Waleffe, the French satirist, who tells of a remarkable book of spirits' poems just published in Paris under the title of "The Glory of Illusion."
Three years ago died Judith Gautier, niece of Theophile Gautier, and left a collection of slightly—er—passionate novels and collections of poems which were circulated among friends. One of these friends was a girl, Judith's most intimate companion. A year after Judith's death this girl dreamed a dream. In the dream Judith appeared and commanded her to seize a pencil and write to dictation. The result was a series of poems of an exoteric character which are triumphs of meter and scan perfectly. They are published in the name of the girl friend, Mlle. S. Meyer Zundel, but Mlle. Zundel says they're not really her works at all, but were directly dictated by her dead friend. Previous to Judith's death, Mlle. Zundel says she never wrote a line of poetry.
Here we have direct proof of an invisible intelligence directing this young lady to write poems which she admits she never wrote before her friend's death. The materialistic skeptic who is always ready to interpret dreams as coincidences cannot call this a coincidence before the testimony of such facts when they are brought to the eyes of an intelligent public. The would-be interpreter of human existence remains baffled and silent; they can neither deny these facts nor do they dare to explain them.
Friday, May 6, 1921, Chicago Daily News (by Marion Holmes):
Dear Marion Holmes: I should like just out of curiosity to get the opinion of some of your corner readers, as well as your own, on the enclosed sketch of a dream I had when working out west. About 26 years ago I was working in the West near the mining country, and one night I dreamed I was in a mining town, the name of which I did not know in my dream, nor had I ever seen it in reality. I was crossing the street to a store building painted white, and in my hand I carried an envelope that I was to deliver to the boss of the store. When I arrived at the center of the street I was met by three men who were coming from the opposite side, one of whom stopped me, saying: "Come with me and I will show you where there is a gold mine." I replied: "I haven't time to go now," but he insisted, "Well, come anyway and when you have time you can go and get it." So I went. We started off in the direction of what I have since learned is the richest locality in gold mines and after walking a while we seemed to float through space; then we came to the ground a few feet from the top of the mountain. We walked up to the top and again floated in the air in a semi-circle, landing at the foot of another mountain a few miles to the west.
The stranger said: "I want you to note the peculiar formation of this country and this stream and right here, walking a short distance, is where you will find the gold." About three months later I decided to return to Chicago, and in the train I met a cigar salesman who, as we soon became friendly, insisted that I should locate in one of the towns on his route and gave me a letter to a certain friend of his in the mining district. When the friend had read the letter he wrote another to a friend of his own on whom I was to call. As I went down the street I carried the letter in my hand and as I crossed the street I stopped short, for the store I sought was the store of my dream.