14 March 1860
William Davey,
c/o the Scottish Mesmeric Society,
George Square, Edinburgh
Reverend Davey:
I am sure you are aware, as am I, that any subject of Her Majesty has the right to travel wherever he likes within her realms. As the local constabulary is not presently aware of any misdeeds you might have committed, I am certain that you will not be molested on your arrival. Conversely, I am sure that you should not expect to be received in the style of a conquering hero should you choose to visit.
If you arrive before evening on any weekday, you are welcome to join me in the churchyard, where those who have departed us enjoy their final rest. I am sure you will find the experience enlightening. I pray that it does something to prick your conscience as well.
With respect I remain
Sincerely yours,
Rev. David Esdaile,
The Manse,
Rescobie, Angus
WILLIAM DAVEY
I should like to think that the motivation that drew me north to Rescobie was, in part, one of Christian charity, based on my intention to reconcile with the family of James Esdaile. I had told Braid, and certainly had intimated to Thomas Carlyle, that I had no desire to be taunted or humiliated—but for some reason, I decided that I was willing to submit to such treatment by David Esdaile, James’s younger brother, who served the parish of Rescobie. He had dabbled in mesmerism himself when James had first begun the practice, though his demonstrated skill had never brought him to my—or the Committee’s—attention. But he might provide some insights into the object—and the true reason James had left it behind.
Thus, I admit that the other part of my motivation was strictly as the Chairman of the Committee. There was unfinished business, even if James Esdaile was dead.
Rescobie was near Forfar, only a few hours’ trip from Edinburgh. Even if all I accomplished was to pay my respects to Esdaile’s family, it merited the trip. I had sent a letter to the Reverend Esdaile from Edinburgh, resulting in a curt and cold reply—no less than I should have expected.
Reverend Esdaile was going to provide me with more information about his brother’s time in Scotland, even if I had to offer to humble myself to obtain it. What constituted humility for David Esdaile might not be too difficult for me to accept.
I boarded the train in Edinburgh bound for Perth with far less incident than in Manchester. Carlyle and Colquhoun were there to see me off—rather surprising for the author, given what I am sure was perceived to be shabby treatment on my part—but I had confirmed his position as Brisbane’s successor. That seemed sufficient for him to assume a mantle of courtesy as I made my way out of his new domain.
I only determined to depart after Reverend Esdaile’s reply arrived; I had thus remained longer in Edinburgh than I had intended. I passed the time touring Edinburgh Castle at one end of the High Street and Holyroodhouse at the other. One evening featured a festive board with the Scottish mesmerists, none of whom issued a formal challenge or sought to poison my wine. Still, it was easy to see that my well-wishers were eager to well-wish me away from Edinburgh as speedily as possible.
The train took me by way of Stirling to Perth. In more recent years, travelers have been saved this circuitous path by crossing the Firth of Forth by Fowler and Baker’s magnificent bridge; but in 1860 that was three decades in the future, making my own journey longer and more wearying. Perth was where Esdaile and Eliza had dwelt during their two and a half years in Scotland after returning from India; I was not sure if there was anything there to see, so I did not tarry. Instead, I boarded a Caledonian Railway train that took me through Dundee to Forfar, where I arrived late in the day.
Rescobie was a tiny place, no more than a church with a few houses clustered around it, set at the edge of a small loch, or lake, though only four or five miles from Forfar. Rescobie would afford me no lodging; therefore, I engaged a room in Forfar for overnight and settled myself down for rest. The next day would likely afford none.
Some among my professional colleagues put great stock in dreams. For my part, I am always skeptical of what the sleeping mind dredges from its depths and presents to the fevered imagination, particularly when worries and concerns run through it like trains at a busy railway station.
But recent events had suggested that other forces were at work. It would have been foolish to completely discount words from dreams, particularly when those words were spoken by friends or enemies.
There is a ruined church adjacent to Holyroodhouse, the remains of an Augustinian abbey where the Order of the Thistle once sat. I had walked around it the day I toured Mary Queen of Scots’ palace, marveling at the views and considering the ruins, a sort of memento mori to history long past but—like much in Scotland—in unquiet rest. It was to this place that my dreams took me, and it was in those dreams that I heard someone calling my name.
“Davey.”
The voice that called me came from a figure seated on a stone bench under a covered archway, all that remained of the abbey roof, which formed the north wall of the palace itself. Away from the sunlight that streamed through the triforium windows, I could scarcely make out the man who sat there, a scarecrow perched on the very edge of his seat, legs crossed, hands clasped across his knee.
It was Edward Quillinan, my predecessor as Chairman. I had not thought of him much at all since his death nine years earlier—but he had come to mind when I was instructing Thomas Carlyle on our relative relationship. Quillinan looked just as he had when he had quit the Committee in 1842 to care for his wife: frail and pale, the physiognomy and pinched expression of a lesser poet.
“It’s good to see you, Quillinan,” I said, walking closer. I think in my mind I had realized this was a dream—since seeing someone dead many years and whom I hadn’t seen for years before that seemed nothing out of the ordinary.
“Really, Davey, don’t strain yourself. I don’t care.” He straightened his legs and stretched them out before him, the knees cracking in the way that always set my teeth on edge. “I just wondered how you were getting on.”
“Personally, or professionally? No, wait,” I said, holding up my hand, “let me spare you the need for another witty reply. The Committee is doing well, and I am doing well.”
“That Esdaile matter hasn’t turned out as you hoped, I see.”
“You have been watching?”
“Figure of speech.” He patted the pockets of his coat and drew out a small commonplace book, flipped it open and consulted it, then tucked it back away. “I just thought you might be in need of a bit of advice.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Wit. Excellent, good to see you still are capable of repartee at this late date. I’m sure it has served you well in the pulpit. Oh,” he said, in a voice that encompassed his typical sneer, “you don’t spend much time there, do you? No matter. I just thought I might tell you that the conversation with Braid should tell you something important.”
“It already has. Whether James Braid believes in mesmerism or the magnetic fluid or not, it exists and I have skill with it.”
“So do others. And they are not afraid of it, either.”
“You think I am?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. But please understand that I consider that a virtue. One of the few you possess. There is a future for the mesmeric art—but it’s not what you think. And it’s not what Braid thinks either, for what that’s worth.”
“Care to give me some insight from beyond the grave?”
“‘For we know in part, and we prophesy in part—for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”
“‘And the greatest of these is charity,’” I answered. “First Corinthians is highly quotable. So I don’t see and Braid doesn’t see. Is there anyone who does?”
“I do. And all I can say is what I told Lord Morpeth a lifetime ago.” He grinned; the skin pulled tight on his face as always, a skull straining to get out. “Mesmerism will soon have to pay homage at the Delphic shrine of technology.”
“I remember you saying that. I had no idea what you meant then, and I don’t know now, either. Care to be more clear?”
“No, not in the least, except to observe that it is technology that is shaping the future into the present day by day. The Art would be better served if it were harnessed to Science. You’d best take charge of it or someone will do it for you.”
“‘Someone’?”
“Someone you don’t trust. Someone you should consider fearing.”
“Within my circle?”
“Circles. Appropriate metaphor. The wheels go round and round, Davey. You’d best make sure they don’t run you over.”
My thoughts flew instantly to the scene at the Manchester railway platform and the Levantine, looking to push me in front of an oncoming train.
“I’m not afraid of anything from beyond the Glass Door.”
“Because you’re so clean and pure?” he sneered again, and folded his arms across his chest. “Please spare me the platitudes and histrionics. No one’s hands are clean.”
“You have no idea.”
“No, old boy. You have no idea.” In the dream, the sun faded out and clouds seemed to lower.
“Tell me more,” I said, stepping closer and under the stone arch. The skies appeared ready to open up.
“No, I shall not,” Quillinan answered. “You’ll have to peer through the dark glass and find this one out for yourself.”
Behind me, there was a roll of thunder. I turned around; when I returned my gaze to the stone bench, Quillinan was gone, but his commonplace book remained. It had a curious glyph on the cover—a sort of bust with three heads, one looking to the left, one to the right and one looking directly forward.
I reached for it—
But another peal of thunder shook me awake in my tiny hotel room in Forfar.
I looked out the window, cursing the weather that had roused me. Beyond the dark glass, it had begun to rain.