As I mentioned in
my previous post, I intend to go on researching Emma Lea Wilson. In part, it's because I'm hoping to uncover another story by her, but it's mainly because of something that was sandwiched between the pages of my copy of
The Vanishing Hand.
I really love finding odd bits of paper ephemera inside books... train tickets, receipts, newspaper clippings, and notes from previous owners. Usually, I find receipts and clippings of book reviews, but every now and then I find treasure, which was the case with The Vanishing Hand. Tucked between two of its pages was a note containing some intriguing information about the book's contents; according to the note's writer (who knew people who'd known Emma) the stories were in part true. I spent a fair bit of time looking into the histories of Emma's family members as a result. And I'm surprised, given her penchant for writing about the events in her relatives' lives, that Emma never wrote an actual ghost story. But perhaps she did, and we've not found it yet (I live in hope).
Henry Bacchus and his wife, Isabella—Emma's uncle and aunt—were visiting Cheltenham in 1868 when the latter saw a ghost. The account of Isabella's experience was reported in the Society for Psychical Research's Proceedings (vol. 5, March 1889, pp. 422-426) and then included in F. W. H. Myers' Human Personality and Its Survival of Bodily Death in 1903 (pp. 34-36). What follows is taken in its entirety from the latter.
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The account is given by Mrs. Bacchus, of Sherbourne Villa, Leamington.
August 1886.
On Saturday, October 18th [really 24th], we left some friends (the Marquis and Madame de Lys) with whom we had been staying at Malvern Wells, and went to Cheltenham. The reason for going to Cheltenham was that a brother-in-law of my husband, Mr. George Copeland, was living there. He was a great invalid, suffering from paralysis and quite unable to move, but in full mental vigour, so his friends were anxious to see him as often as possible to relieve the dreariness of his long illness, and we did not like to be so near without paying him a visit. We knew that he had friends staying in the house at the time, so determined to go to Cheltenham without letting him know, to take lodgings near, and then tell him we had done so, that he might not feel he ought to invite us to his house. We soon found some rooms in York Terrace, close to Bay’s Hill, Mr. Copeland’s house. After we had taken the rooms—the usual lodging-house kind—drawing-room and bedroom at the back, and were going out, we noticed some medicine bottles on the hall table, asked if any one were ill in the house, and were told that an old lady, a Mrs. R., and her daughter were in the dining-room, that Mrs. R. had been ill for some time, that her illness was not serious and that there was no immediate danger of her dying; in fact, it was made quite light of, and we thought no more about it. We just mentioned in the course of the evening the name of the people lodging in the same house, and Mr. Copeland said he knew who Mrs. R. was; she was the widow of a physician who formerly practised in Cheltenham, that one of her daughters was married to a master of the College, a Mr. N. Then I remembered having seen Mrs. N. at a garden party at Dr. Barry’s the year before, and had noticed her talking to Mrs. Barry, and thought her very pretty. This was all I knew or ever heard of the people. On Sunday morning, when I came into the drawing-room for breakfast, I thought my husband looked a little uncomfortable; however, he said nothing till I had finished breakfast, then asked, “Did you hear a noise of a chair in the hall a little while ago? The old lady downstairs died in her chair last night, and they were wheeling her into the bedroom at the back.” I was very uncomfortable and frightened; I had never been in a house with any one dead before, and I wanted to go, and several friends who heard of it asked me to stay with them, but my husband did not wish to move. He said it was a great deal of trouble, was really foolish of me to wish it, that he did not like moving on Sunday, also that he did not think it right or kind to go away because some one had died, that we should think it unkind if the case had been our own, and other people had rushed off in a hurry; so we decided to stay. I spent the day with my brother-in-law and nieces, and only returned to the lodgings in time to go to bed. I went to sleep quickly as usual, but woke, I suppose, in the middle of the night, not frightened by any noise, and for no reason, and saw distinctly at the foot of the bed an old gentleman with a round rosy face, smiling, his hat in his hand, dressed in an old-fashioned coat (blue) with brass buttons, light waistcoat, and trousers. The longer I looked at him the more distinctly I saw every feature and particular of his dress, &c. I did not feel much frightened, and after a time shut my eyes for a minute or two, and when I looked again the old gentleman was gone. After a time I went to sleep, and in the morning, while dressing, made up my mind that I would say nothing of what I had seen till I saw one of my nieces, and would then describe the old gentleman, and ask if Dr. R. could be like him, although the idea seemed absurd. I met my niece, Mary Copeland (now Mrs. Brandling), coming out of church, and said, “Was Dr. R. like an old gentleman with a round rosy face,” &c., &c., describing what I had seen. She stopped at once on the pavement, looking astonished. “Who could have told you, aunt? We always said he looked more like a country farmer than a doctor, and how odd it was that such a common-looking man should have had such pretty daughters.”
This is an exact account of what I saw. I am quite sure I should know the old gentleman again, his face is clearly before me when I think of it now, as at the time Miss de Lys had a letter from me with the story, and sent it to a relation in France; she heard me tell it again some years after, and said there was no variation whatever in it. My two nieces are still living, and can remember exactly everything that happened as I told it to them. Of course I cannot explain it in any way; the old lady who was dead was in the room directly under the one I was sleeping in. The part of the whole thing that surprised me the most was, that I was so very little frightened as to be able to sleep afterwards, and did not wish to disturb any one else.
Mr. Bacchus writes:—
LEAMINGTON, September 27th, 1886.
I have read my wife’s account of what happened at Cheltenham when we were staying there in October 1868; it is exactly what she told me at the time, and I remember it all perfectly, also her telling my nieces about it in the morning.
HENRY BACCHUS.
In answer to further questions, Mrs. Bacchus replied as follows:—
September 4th, 1886.
(1) I have never seen anything of the kind before or since.
(2) I gave the date from memory. The day was Saturday, and it was Sunday night, or early on Monday morning, that I saw Dr. R.
(3) I do not remember the number in York Terrace; probably the Times of October 1868 would give Mrs. R.’s death and where it took place. [The Times gives the death at 7 York Terrace, Sunday, October 25th, 1868.]
(4) The letter to Miss de Lys cannot be found; all my letters to her were burnt after she died in 1883.
(5) Mr. Bacchus and Mrs. Henry Berkeley have given their account. Mrs. Brandling has not yet written.
(6) I am quite sure I never saw any picture of any kind of Dr. R.
(7) I do not know when he died; probably three or four years before I saw him. His death was spoken of in that way. I can find out if necessary from an old servant of Mr. Copeland’s who lives at Cheltenham, and who would remember him, and be able to inquire.
(8) I do not remember anything about the light, if there was a night-light in the room or not; I think not. When I say, “do not remember,” I mean that being asked puzzles me; my impression of the whole thing is that it was like a magic lantern, all dark round, and the figure, colour, and clothes quite light and bright. I always see the whole thing when I speak of it.
ISABELLA BACCHUS.
Statements were also obtained from Mrs. Berkeley and Mrs. Brandling, nieces of Mrs. Bacchus, confirming her recollection that she had described the details of the apparition to them the next morning, and that it closely resembled Dr. R., as they remembered him. These statements are printed in full in the Proceedings.
Mr. R. died (as Mrs. Bacchus ascertained for us), August 30th, 1865.
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I'm sure that Emma could have made something of her aunt's story. Well, maybe she did but didn't publish the results, or perhaps the story is out there somewhere waiting to be rediscovered. As I said in my last post, if you happen to come across anything written by her please do get in touch.
