NEW GHOSTS ARE WRITING POETRY BY UNIVERSAL SERVICE.
Author: Yacki Raizizun
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, andleft a collection of slightly--er--passionate novels and collectionsof poems which were circulated among friends. One of these friends wasa girl, Judith's most intimate companion. A year after Judith's deaththis girl dreamed a dream. In the dream Judith appeared and commandedher to seize a pencil and write to dictation. The result was a seriesof poems of an exoteric character which are triumphs of meter and scanperfectly. They are published in the name of the girl friend, Mlle. S.Meyer Zundel, but Mlle. Zundel says they're not really her works atall, but were directly dictated by her dead friend. Previous toJudith's death, Mlle. Zundel says she never wrote a line of poetry.Here we have direct proof of an invisible intelligence directing thisyoung lady to write poems which she admits she never wrote before herfriend's death. The materialistic skeptic who is always ready tointerpret dreams as coincidences cannot call this a coincidence beforethe testimony of such facts when they are brought to the eyes of anintelligent public. The would-be interpreter of human existenceremains baffled and silent; they can neither deny these facts nor dothey 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. Three years ago at a summer resort where a company of us were telling strange dreams, I remarked that the weak part of my dream was that one of my guides was supposed to be a dead relative of my own, and my mother remarked at once, "I had an uncle, a prospector, who died out West in the mining country, but nobody ever knew just where." Chicago.
