IN a cosy parlor within gunshot distance of Grafton street, Dublin, half a dozen friends had met. Four of the six were newly-fledged medical men — the other two a journalist and a Catholic priest. This was a final meeting previous to a separation of many years — or it might be that some of the party would meet for the last time, as their duties called them away in widely different directions. One, a powerfully-built young medical man, was about to leave for South Africa to join the British forces under Lord Chelmsford. It was about the time that Prince Louis Napoleon (one of a party under the command of a cavalry officer, a Capt. Carey) was overtaken in fight and slain by Zulus. The end of Capt. Carey, I may here add, was almost equally tragic — he died of a broken heart caused by the cruel aspersions of his brother officers, at the head of whom was the present Sir Redvers Buller. It was said that Carey through cowardice had left the luckless prince to his fate. The writer, however, is of opinion, from investigations made later, that the unfortunate officer was in no way to blame for the catastrophe, and that the untimely and tragic death of the young prince could not have been averted. It simply was to be; the prince had been in a way warned of his impending doom two years before, by a gypsy palmist, whom he had consulted, half in fun, in one of the outlying districts of London, not far from the little town of Ealing.

      It was a most pitiful tragedy — one of the most pitiful and exciting perhaps of that eventful period. Saying this much I shall pass on to the spirit of the present narrative.

      The six friends who had met in the cozy parlor near Grafton street were Nationalists at heart; not one of whom but would have [given] up his life for the independence of his country. But perceiving no such happy prospect in view, they had to bow to the inevitable and accept service wherever they could obtain it; it mattered little to them which part of the world it was in; but they had to live. And so Dr. Jack C—— had accepted a position as a volunteer surgeon in South Africa, under Chelmsford, as I have previously said. The priest, Father D——, was about to leave for China as a missionary; the journalist, Terrence McC——, had a good salaried position offered him on a big London daily. Of the three remaining medical men, one was to sail in a few days for Melbourne, Australia; the other two, Dr. O'C—— and Dr. K——, had bought out a large practice in Yorkshire, in one of the most extensive coal mining districts (Barnsley) and an adjoining branch practice — the latter which was to be run by Dr. K—— in the interests of Dr. O'C——.

      These six men for years (though from different parts of Ireland) had been fast friends. They met in the same cozy parlor four times a month, chiefly to discuss subliminal and psychological phases of thought — subjects which had made a deep impression on men who had a natural leaning toward the metaphysical and abstruse.

      Before going further in this connection I may incidentally mention the fact that Dr. K—— and Dr. Jack C—— were physically two of the greatest all-round athletes in the land — men whose courage and daring were unquestioned. This is one of the points I desire especially to make, as the tragic event which followed later will fully bear me out.

      "Well, boys," began Father D—— after a somewhat embarrassing silence, "this will be the last meeting in many a year; and who knows if we shall ever come together again. You all know how I look upon the bright side of everything, but I confess to-night I've a queer feeling here" (and the young priest placed his hand almost sadly on his heart) "that this comfortable room has seen some of us for the last time — China, South Africa, Australia are widely separated! Faith, I almost envy O'C—— and his friend Dan, their almost home life in England. But what can we say of our good old Jack going to face the assegais and bullets of the Zulus — fierce and savage warriors, who are more vindictive than North American Indians?" Some of the party interrupted the good priest with a careless laugh, saying that there was no fear of that happening, but Dr. Jack was not one of them. He seemed to take Father D——'s words with more than his usual seriousness.

      "More unlikely things happen," he said with slow deliberation after a while. "But I would prefer that even than to die a lingering death of disease. All through my life," he pursued gravely, "I've had the thought I would never die in bed! I don't know why, but this same thought invariably comes up, even in my waking moments, and there are times I am unable to shake it off. But what matters it how a man dies, if his conscience is clear and he is prepared? What matters it; one cannot always live. We reach the end, whether young or old. One simple word, finis, and the chapter, the last of life, is closed. Now, Father D—— I will ask you one question. After all our metaphysical discussions, do you honestly believe that the spirits of the dead can communicate with the living, or that they can return to earth?"

      The priest shook his head doubtfully. It was a subject in all of their "talks" that he did his best to avoid. Dr. K—— relieved the clergyman of his embarassment by saying that while there was no positive proof that the dead came back, he had perfect faith that they did. "We all believe," he went on, "that the living can communicate with the living; we have ample evidence to prove this. Space sets no bounds to the power of thought — and yet, strangely enough, little is known of telepathy, and certainly not as the most potent force of the world to-day. Advance a proposition of this sort to your smart fellows and their answer will be a sneer, or, at best, a smile of pity at your folly. But we who have studied and investigated know thought transference to be a fact — a powerful factor in progressive ideas, which will grow and continue to grow until it revolutionizes the crude thought-methods of to-day, and raises us to a higher plane in mental and spiritual development. But if this be the case of the living communicating with the living, what is to hinder the dead (who are really more alive in a spiritual sense than we) to communicate with those dear to them in earth life? I again say, though there is no proof positive that the dead (?) can revisit the scenes of their earth pilgrimage, I have, no reason to assume that they cannot; nor for the matter of that has any one present. My opinion, then, is that the dead (?) — the spirits of the dead — can not only communicate with their earth friends, but return in spirit form so as to be an absolute reality. There are thousands in the world to-day (ready under oath) to give evidence of it."

      This was a long speech for Dr. Dan K——, but it was listened to with deep interest — as the powerful athletic doctor was impassioned in delivery, and his fine face lighted up with the earnestness and enthusiasm that comes from honest conviction.

      "That we all believe in telepathy," said Dr. Jack, in turn, "goes without saying. Now, Dan, I will make a compact with you, which, on my part, will be solemnly lived up to. Should I happen to come to grief in South Africa, under Chelmsford, I will let you know — whether alive or dead! Should harm befall you, and you be the first to succumb (which God forbid), you will do the same by me — whether alive or dead."

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(Continued To-morrow.)

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      ("How Dr. Jack C—— Died" was begun in The Standard Union yesterday. Four doctors, a journalist and a priest, all fast friends, met in a parlor in Dublin on the eve of their separation to go to the four quarters of the globe. Dr. Jack C——, who is going to the Zulu war, makes a compact with Dr. Dan K——, who had bought out a practice in Yorkshire, that which ever shall be the first to die shall communicate with the other in spirit form.)

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THIS is the strange compact upon which the present narrative hinges — made and ratified between the two friends, as the writer was later informed by the survivor, in Worsboro Dale, Yorkshire; and now I come to the special point, which I will give, as nearly as possible, in his own words.

      In the early summer of 1879 I was talking to the celebrated Greek scholar (Prof. John Stuart Blackie) within a few yards of Sir Walter Scott's monument, on Princes street, Edinburgh, when a splendidly-built gentleman, fully six feet two and a half in height, with grand shoulders and a magnificent face and head, went by. In this man I recognized my friend, Dr. Dan K——. As he passed he partially removed his hat in salutation.

      "A splendid type of man," said the grand old professor, following Dr. K——'s receding figure with admiring eyes. "Who is he?" (I told him.) "Magnificent!" he kept repeating, softly. "Christopher North (Professor Wilson) was such another man. We don't see these types often nowadays — more's the pity."

      The next morning's mail brought me a letter from Dr. K——, with an inclosed invitation to spend a month with him at his branch practice in Yorkshire. Having nothing especially to detain me in Edinburgh, or to prevent my acceptance of the doctor's kind offer, I intimated by return mail that I was at his disposal, and that any hour he would set for leaving would find me in readiness.

      The following night we were traveling (per fast express — the "Flying Scotchman") to our destination, the old historic town of Barnsley, in Yorkshire. The night journey, with one exception, was uneventful; this was the reading of a letter by Dr. K——, received the day before from South Africa, from his friend, Jack C——.

      The following is chiefly the substance of the communication, after a few preliminaries, which have nothing to do with this narrative:

*       *       *       *       *      *

      One night, three weeks after this experience of the journey and the letter, Dr. K—— and I retired about 11 o'clock. The doctor had had a trying day with his patients, and as I had been devoting a good part of ten hours to literary work I was pretty well tired out and glad to close my eyes and get a substantial sleep. The scene was in the doctor's house at Worsboro Dale — a commodious bedroom on the second floor, in which was a double bed. I was many years younger then than now, and need not add that I had no trouble wooing sleep. In less than three minutes I was sleeping soundly, without dream or vision of any sort. I cannot say how long I was in this blissful state when I felt myself suddenly and violently pulled to a sitting posture in the bed. I was awake in an instant. "What is it — what is the matter?" I managed to gasp. "Is the house a-fire?" In truth, I did not know what to think. "Did you not hear?" came Dr. K——'s voice, hoarsely. "Hear what?" I managed to jerk out. My first impression was that the doctor had gone mad.

      There was a light in the room from a small spirit lamp on a card table, and I saw my friend sitting bolt upright in the bed, glaring wildly at the footboard. (It was one of those old mahogany four-posters, happily now out of date.) The doctor repeated his question. "I heard nothing," I answered, with an involuntary trembling, which I could not still; for it certainly was not pleasant to be awakened out of a profound sleep in that forceful way. "Did you not hear Jack's voice? He called loudly three times — 'Dan! — Dan!! — Dan!!!' There! my God! I see his face now! He's dead — dead — dead!" and the great athletic man sank back with a sob, covering his face with his hands as though to shut out some horrible vision. He presently recovered himself, and I saw his eyes humid with tears. "No, no," he wailed, in awed tones, "I ought not to expect you to see it, or hear the voice. He was nothing to you, while a more than brother to me — the dearest, truest friend I had on earth! Ah, Jack! poor old Jack! so you did live up to your compact, and you came back in the spirit. I tell you, man, I saw him at the foot of the bed, as plainly as I see you now, and heard him calling 'Dan — Dan — Dan!' He's dead, I tell you; it's no good telling me it's a dream — a delusion — I know better! My poor, good old Jack is dead!"

*       *       *       *       *      *

      We timed the occurrence of this supernatural (?) visitation next day, then awaited advices from South Africa, which came along in due course. Dr. K——'s fears for the fate of his friend, Dr. Jack C—— were not only verified, but (allowing for the time between the distant points of the north was at his last gasp when his wraith appeared to Dan, with five murderous assegai wounds in his body — and four of his assailants dead around him, whom the lion-hearted doctor had shot with his revolver. A fifth (a powerful Zulu) was clutched tightly in his embrace, also stark and stiff in death!

      From accounts which I later read in the South African dispatches, from the war correspondents, it appears that Dr. Jack C—— had left his camp in the darkness unattended, was surprised by armed Zulus in a mealie field, and fought as a heroic man like him would fight for his life — to the last gasp. Did he call his friend's name at that crucial moment thrice, or was it simply an "ether wave" from his subconscious spirit, as the darkness of death fell upon him? I know not — do you?

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PACT MADE BY THE LIVING KEPT BY A SPIRIT

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Story of How Man in England
Learned of His Friend's Death
in Africa.

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SLAIN IN FIGHT WITH ZULUS.

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At the Moment He Died, His Old
Chum, Far Away, Became Aware
of the Fact.

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To the Editor of the Brooklyn Eagle:
      The accounts of ghostly visitations recently appearing in several papers have caused such interest to me that I venture to submit a story that may call forth an explanation from readers versed in spiritology, Spiritism — call it what you like.

      Some of the characters figuring in the account are dead. The Dr. O'Connell referred to is at present a practicing physician in Melbourne, Australia. Dr. Kennedy died in Melbourne about fifteen years ago. The priest figuring in the story is still in China, engaged in missionary work, while the journalist mentioned holds an editorial place on a daily in the English capital.

      I left New York for Edinburgh, Scotland, in August, 1872. After an experience of six years on the daily papers and magazines of the English and Scottish capitals I made the acquaintance of Dr. Dan Kennedy, a native of Castle Island, County Kerry. At this time Kennedy had a branch practice under Dr. O'Connell. The latter succeeded to the Barnsley practice, in Yorkshire, which previously had been held by a Dr. Wainright, to whom the late Dr. Shine of New York (a noted character and a remarkable man) was at the time locum tenens.

      It was while living in Edinburgh that I met Kennedy. He was in the company of Charles Doyle (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's father), whom I knew well. The outcome of this meeting was an introduction, and a friendship that lasted till Kennedy's death.

      It is from Dr. Kennedy that I got some of the incidents of the present account, and one or two from actual experience while the doctor's guest, at Yorkshire.

      I must here explain that before the doctor went to Edinburgh to get his Scotch degree he was a student in Dublin. In the latter city he had joined a select coterie of his countrymen, who met weekly in a house adjoining Grafton street to discuss metaphysics and psychological phenomena, with what results the reader will be made acquainted later.

      "We met for the last time," said Dr. Kennedy, in recounting his experiences to me. "You see, our duties called us in different directions. My friend Considine (one of our little coterie) was to leave for South Africa, as volunteer surgeon, under Lord Chelmsford, who then was making some headway against the Zulus. Considine was a splendid fellow, and one of the best athletes I ever met. He was a clever physician and surgeon, and so was well equipped for his billet. The priest, Father D., was to leave for China as a missionary: the journalist had a paying position offered to him on a London daily. Of the others, one was to sail in a few days from Melbourne, while Dr. O'Connell, who had bought out a lucrative practice in Yorkshire, in one of the extensive coal districts, took me along to run a branch practice, which I had to manage in his interests.

      "As I have said," continued the doctor, "this was to be our final meeting, so that evening we gave ourselves up to the discussion of subliminal and psychological phases of thought.

      "During the discussion my friend Considine, who seemed to be unusually serious, said, with great earnestness:

      "This evening, while on my way here, the thought came to me that I would die a violent death. This thought has haunted me repeatedly, but to-night I'm unable to shake it off. With all our investigations of the unknowable, it does not appear we are any nearer than mere surmise as to an after life. It is a horrible thought — annihilation — but I cannot help being confronted with it at times. There is one way to test it, however, and it is this: I would like to make a pact with you, Dan: Should I come to grief in South Africa under Chelmsford, I will let you know — alive or dead! Should harm befall you, and you are the first to succumb, you will do the same by me — alive or dead!'"

      So much for the fact.

      Now follows the sequel to this remarkable story.

      In the early summer of '79, I received a letter from Dr. Kennedy, with an invitation to spend a month with him at his branch practice, Worsboro' Dale, Yorkshire. I returned reply by mail that I was at his disposal, and any time he would set for the journey would find me ready.

      The following night we were traveling by express to the historic town of Barnsley. The night journey with one exception was uneventful; this was the reading of a letter by Dr. Dan, received the day before from South Africa, from his friend, Considine.

      One night, three weeks after this experience of the journey and the letter, Dr. Kennedy and I had retired about 11 o'clock. The doctor had had a trying day with his patients and as I had been also doing some hard work, I was pretty much tired out and glad to close my eyes in sleep. The scene was in the doctor's house at Worsboro' Dale — a large room on the second floor, in which was a double bed. In less than ten minutes I was sleeping soundly. I cannot say how long I was in this state when I felt myself suddenly and violently pulled to a sitting position in the bed.

      There was a light in the room from a small spirit lamp on a card table, and I saw Dr. Kennedy sitting bolt upright in the bed, glaring wildly at the footboard.

      "Didn't you hear?" came Dr. Kennedy's voice. "Jack called my name three times. He said 'Dan — Dan — Dan!'"

      "I heard nothing," I replied, with an involuntary trembling, thinking now that the doctor had gone suddenly mad.

      "Didn't you hear Jack's voice?" he repeated, apparently not heeding me. "He called 'Dan! Dan! Dan!' three times. There, my God! I see his face now!" And the great athletic man sank back with a sob, covering his face with his hands, as though to shut out some horrible vision. Presently he recovered himself, and I saw his eyes humid with tears. "No, no," he murmured, in awed tones, "I oughtn't to expect you to see it or hear the voice. He was nothing to you, while more than a brother to me — the dearest, truest friend I had on earth! Ah, poor Jack! Poor old Jack! so you did live up to your compact, and you came back in the spirit. I tell you I saw him at the foot of the bed as plainly as I see you now, and heard him calling me. He's dead. I tell you — and it's no use saying it's a dream — a delusion — I know better! Poor Jack lived up to his pact — he's dead!"

      I timed the happening of this supernatural (?) visitation next day, then awaited advices from South Africa. Dr. Dan's fears for the fate of his friend Considine were not only verified, but (allowing for the time between the distant points of the North of England and South Africa) the latter was at his last gasp when his apparition appeared to his friend, with five murderous assegai wounds in his body, and four of his assailants dead around him, whom the doctor had shot. A fifth was clutched tightly in his embrace, also stark and stiff in death!

      From accounts I later read in the South African dispatches, from the war correspondents, it appears that Dr. Considine had left his camp in the darkness unattended, was surrounded by armed Zulus in a corn field and fought to the last.

      The question arises how did he communicate with his friend? Did he call his name at that crucial moment, or was it simply an "ether wave" from his subconscious spirit, as the darkness of death fell upon him?

GERALD CARLTON.