Mental Telegraphy Part 3

At the end of yesterday's guest blog, Sam Clemens described an odd circumstance which, while not exactly an example of his "mental telegraphy," nevertheless qualified as what we, today, would call "high strangeness." As he watched a stranger approach his house, the stranger seemed to disappear. When Clemens found the stranger had, in fact, rung and been admitted through the front door, he concluded that he must have unknowingly fallen asleep, or unconscious, for the sixty seconds (minimum) that it took the visitor to walk past him, ring the doorbell and be admitted.

Now, let's examine this a little further. From Clemens' point of view, the man simply "disappeared." As he puts it, "It was as astounding as if a church should vanish from before your face and leave nothing behind it but a vacant lot."

Normally, when a person falls asleep or unexpectedly loses consciousness, there is a break in perception—a sense of discontinuity. Yet Clemens reports none of that. He didn't say, "I blinked and he was gone." Instead, he says the man disappeared. In fact, his first impulse was that he had witnessed a ghost or phantasm vanish.

When he questioned the stranger, Clemens doesn't report asking the question I was dying to know: "Did you notice me on the porch? What was I doing, how did I appear to you?" But with over a hundred years between Clemens' experience and my second-guessing, there's no way for me to find out the answer. However, Clemens gives us a clue. He says,

He was a stranger, and I hoped he would ring and carry his business into the house without stopping to argue with me; he would have to pass the front door to get to me, and I hoped he wouldn't take the trouble; to help, I tried to look like a stranger myself—it often works.

In other words, Clemens wished to be invisible to the visitor.

In 1972, my wife and I lived in a garage apartment in Palatka, Florida. My best buddy at the time was a guy named John, who was very good-looking and very popular among the ladies. In fact, he lived with three of them and had made the mistake of bedding all of them at one time or another. Well, he was young—we were in junior college together—and it apparently came as a surprise to him that the girls compared notes and proceeded to fight over him. The turmoil became so extravagant that he fled, intending to come to my house for some peace.

Unknown to him, Mary and I and our friends Mike and Johanna, were on our way to the St. Augustine Beach. As John was walking up our front stairs, we were exiting out the back way to where my car was parked. We didn't bother to lock our doors in those days, so John simply let himself in and, finding no one home, stretched out on our sofa and, wished himself invisible.

Meanwhile, in the car, I discovered I had left the apartment without my keys. So I ran back upstairs, checking the various surfaces where I may have put them down—the dinette table, the counter next to the stove, then the end tables on either side of the sofa, the coffee table, and finally in the bedroom where I found them on the floor. At no time during this search did I perceive John, or anyone else, on the sofa. In fact, I found nothing amiss, and hurried out the back door, letting it slam shut in my rush.

When I got into the car and started the engine, and put it into reverse, I happened to look up at one of our apartment windows and was astounded to see John's face in it, grinning, accompanied by his waving hand. Of course I stopped the car, apologized (again) to our passengers, and ran upstairs. I thought John had just arrived, having no idea that he'd been there for several minutes. But as we hammered out the details, it became apparent that, somehow, John had made himself invisible to me.

Or had he? He was completely unaware that I had come into the apartment at all, and he didn't feel that he had had time to go to sleep. Yet he hadn't seen me, and I hadn't seen him, even though—in theory—we had been in the same room at the same time.

I have another, earlier story—like the incident with John, among the few that I cannot connect to UFOs or alien abductions. In 1961, my family moved from St. Augustine to a home on Anastasia Island, across the Matanzas River from St. Augustine. We only stayed there a couple of months while our custom home was being built a few miles away, so we never really unpacked. The garage was therefore filled almost to the ceiling with boxes, neatly stacked and arranged in a spiral so that it was possible to get to any of them should the need arise.

This house was part of a small development that consisted of a single street, horseshoe-shaped; and the house was at the end of the horseshoe furthest from the main road. There were no developments on either side of ours, and the Florida jungle rose up at the terminus of our back yard. If we'd walked another half mile through the woods, we'd have come to the bank of the Matanzas. But we never did that, because Mom explained that the woods were full of snakes.

One day, Mom and my grandparents and my sister Mary Joan rode off in the car to check on the new house, leaving me and my other sister, Louise, to fend for ourselves. I was busy writing a radio script (for fun) and decided I needed to write it on a special type of paper that was still boxed in the garage. I thought I knew where that box was, and decided the need warranted the search. So I went into the garage, following the spiral path around and around to its end, where I had last seen the box I wanted. Sure enough it was there; I opened it and extracted a sheaf of the paper I wanted, and made to return to the kitchen door, which opened into the garage.

I was almost all the way there, when a staccato rattling caught my attention. There, not three feet in front of me, was a rattlesnake, coiled into striking position, rattling its rather large tail off.

As Sam Clemens once said, "My lungs collapsed and my heart stopped." There was no way I could move in time to avoid being struck, and even if I could back up fast enough I would then be trapped in the garage, with no way to get back inside the house or out of the garage. All this went through my mind without my making the slightest motion. And then, something happened which should have struck me odd at the time, but in fact didn't appear so to me until days later as I re-ran the terrifying memory for the umpteenth time. Without my moving, and with my eyes locked on the snake, I found myself standing in the kitchen door, still staring at the snake, which was still coiled to strike, still rattling, but now maybe a safe twenty feet away. As I watched, the snake, having nothing to strike at, stopped rattling and relaxed, stretching out on the floor of the garage.

I was still gasping when Louise, two years younger than me—I was ostensibly babysitting—came into the house through the front door and headed straight for me, as if to enter the garage. I held out my arm to prevent her, yelling, "Lou! There's a snake in the garage!" And I pointed the creature out.

Thing is, a stretched-out snake isn't nearly as identifiable as one that is coiled. Louise looked where I was pointing, and snarled, "That's no snake. It's a rope. I was going to play with it yesterday." She had decided instead to "run the water," which meant playing with the garden hose and getting wet, a favorite pastime of ours. But now she was intent on proving that the snake was a "rope" and for a moment I was afraid I would have to deck my little sister to save her life. Fortunately, the snake took that moment to shift position; Louise screamed when the "rope" came to life, and we slammed the door shut and ran into the yard…

…And to our neighbors, one by one, yelling, "There's a snake in our garage! There's a snake in our garage!" One of them called the sheriff, and soon there was a police car, complete with flashing light, in our driveway and a gathering crowd as the officer made his way into our garage with his "snake catcher", a pole with a metal loop at the end.

Which is what my Mom and grandparents and other sister found when they came home. Unable to park in the driveway, they edged into the crowd of neighbors who, of course, didn't know them since we had just moved in. "He's in the garage," Mom heard, and "Almost killed two children!" Finally, the officer emerged from the side door of the garage with the six-foot-long snake dangling from his snake catcher. The crowd applauded and Mom nearly fainted. The snake was taken to the nearby Alligator Farm on what was presumably the most thrilling automobile ride of its life; the crowd dispersed, and we brought Mom into the house where she collapsed into a chair and had to be ministered to.

But, as I said, days later, as I ran the memory over and over—I realized that, somehow, I had instantaneously shifted position from directly in front of the snake, to the kitchen door. The snake didn't change position. It was still coiled, staring at where I'd been, from my position in the door. What's more, even if I had somehow traveled from in front of the snake to the kitchen without remembering it—well, I couldn't have. I'd have had to climb over precariously stacked boxes, some of which would certainly have fallen in the attempt; and there was no evidence of that. Besides, how to explain the snake waiting patiently in strike position while I got out of the way?

We humans (and all other animals) are constructed of cells, which are made of molecules, which are collections of atoms. The atoms are composed of quantum particles. Now, the interesting thing about quantum particles, is that they don't obey the same rules as (relatively) big things like atoms and cells. Where a cell lasts a long time and most atoms are forever, quantum particles come and go like last week's reality show contestants. They arise out of what is called the "quantum foam" only to vanish back into it as quickly. Normally, the "reality" that is the atom remains in one place, its components constantly changing even though the form remains. This is reflected in the fact that the atoms that make up you also come and go (being completely replaced every seven years), while the identity of you remains.

But—what if—it's possible, under some certain circumstances, for you to stick with the quantum particles as they flutter out of this Universe and back into it at another space-time coordinate? From your point of view, you would remain constant and conscious with no discontinuity; but to the outer world you might appear to have jumped ahead in time, moved instantaneously in space, or both. (Remember, to the physicist, time is a dimension just like width, and exactly as easy to manipulate.) It might even be possible, to an outside observer, to seem to be in two places at once.

Consider this, as we read Sam Clemens' final entry on the subject…

1885

I have three or four curious incidents to tell about. They seem to come under the head of what I named "Mental Telegraphy" in a paper written seventeen years ago, and published long afterward.

Several years ago I made a campaign on the platform with Mr. George W. Cable. In Montreal we were honored with a reception. It began at two in the afternoon in a long drawing-room in the Windsor Hotel. Mr. Cable and I stood at one end of this room, and the ladies and gentlemen entered it at the other end, crossed it at that end, then came up the long left-hand side, shook hands with us, said a word or two, and passed on, in the usual way. My sight is of the telescopic sort, and I presently recognized a familiar face among the throng of strangers drifting in at the distant door, and I said to myself, with surprise and high gratification, "That is Mrs. R.; I had forgotten that she was a Canadian." She had been a great friend of mine in Carson City, Nevada, in the early days. I had not seen her or heard of her for twenty years; I had not been thinking about her; there was nothing to suggest her to me, nothing to bring her to my mind; in fact, to me she had long ago ceased to exist, and had disappeared from my consciousness. But I knew her instantly. I was impatient for her to come. In the midst of the hand shakings I snatched glimpses of her and noted her progress with the slow-moving file across the end of the room; then I saw her start up the side, and this gave me a full front view of her face. I saw her last when she was within twenty-five feet of me. For an hour I kept thinking she must still be in the room somewhere and would come at last, but I was disappointed.

When I arrived in the lecture-hall that evening someone said: "Come into the waiting-room; there's a friend of yours there who wants to see you. You'll not be introduced—you are to do the recognizing without help if you can."

I said to myself: "It is Mrs. R.; I sha'n't have any trouble."

There were perhaps ten ladies present, all seated. In the midst of them was Mrs. R., as I had expected. She was dressed exactly as she was when I had seen her in the afternoon. I went forward and shook hands with her and called her by name, and said:

"I knew you the moment you appeared at the reception this afternoon."

She looked surprised, and said: "But I was not at the reception. I have just arrived from Quebec, and have not been in town an hour."

It was my turn to be surprised now. I said: "I can't help it. I give you my word of honor that it is as I say. I saw you at the reception, and you were dressed precisely as you are now. When they told me a moment ago that I should find a friend in this room, your image rose before me, dress and all, just as I had seen you at the reception."

Those are the facts. She was not at the reception at all, or anywhere near it; but I saw her there nevertheless, and most clearly and unmistakably. To that I could make oath. How is one to explain this? I was not thinking of her at the time; had not thought of her for years. But she had been thinking of me, no doubt; did her thoughts flit through leagues of air to me, and bring with it that clear and pleasant vision of herself? I think so. That was and remains my sole experience in the matter of apparitions—I mean apparitions that come when one is (ostensibly) awake. I could have been asleep for a moment; the apparition could have been the creature of a dream. Still, that is nothing to the point; the feature of interest is the happening of the thing just at that time, instead of at an earlier or later time, which is argument that its origin lay in thought-transference.

My next incident will be set aside by most persons as being merely a "coincidence," I suppose. Years ago I used to think sometimes of making a lecturing trip through the antipodes and the borders of the Orient, but always gave up the idea, partly because of the great length of the journey and partly because my wife could not well manage to go with me. Toward the end of last January that idea, after an interval of years, came suddenly into my head again—forcefully, too, and without any apparent reason. Whence came it? What suggested it? I will touch upon that presently.

I was at that time where I am now—in Paris. I wrote at once to Henry M. Stanley (London), and asked him some questions about his Australian lecture tour, and inquired who had conducted him and what were the terms. After a day or two his answer came. It began:

The lecture agent for Australia and New Zealand is par excellence Mr. R. S. Smythe, of Melbourne.

He added his itinerary, terms, sea expenses, and some other matters, and advised me to write Mr. Smythe, which I did—February 3rd. I began my letter by saying in substance that, while he did not know me personally, we had a mutual friend in Stanley, and that would answer for an introduction. Then I proposed my trip, and asked if he would give me the same terms which he had given Stanley.

I mailed my letter to Mr. Smythe (who, remember, was in Australia) February 6th, and three days later I got a letter from the selfsame Smythe, dated Melbourne, December 17th. I would as soon have expected to get a letter from the late George Washington. The letter began somewhat as mine to him had begun—with a self-introduction:

Dear Mr. Clemens.

It is so long since Archibald Forbes and I spent that pleasant afternoon in your comfortable house at Hartford that you have probably quite forgotten the occasion.

In the course of his letter this occurs:

I am willing to give you [here he named the terms which he had given Stanley] for an antipodean tour to last, say, three months.

Here was the single essential detail of my letter answered three days after I had mailed my inquiry. I might have saved myself the trouble and the postage—and a few years ago I would have done that very thing, for I would have argued that my sudden and strong impulse to write and ask some questions of a stranger on the under side of the globe meant that the impulse came from that stranger, and that he would answer my questions of his own motion if I would let him alone.

Mr. Smythe's letter probably passed under my nose on its way to lose three weeks traveling to America and back, and gave me a whiff of its contents as it went along. Letters often act like that. Instead of the thought coming to you in an instant from Australia, the (apparently) insentient letter imparts it to you as it glides invisibly past your elbow in the mail-bag.

Next incident. In the following month—March—I was in America. I spent a Sunday at Irvington-on-the-Hudson with Mr. John Brisben Walker, of the Cosmopolitan magazine. We came into New York next morning, and went to the Century Club for luncheon. He said some praiseful things about the character of the club and the orderly serenity and pleasantness of its quarters, and asked if I had never tried to acquire membership in it. I said I had not, and that New York clubs were a continuous expense to the country members without being of frequent use or benefit to them.

"And now I've got an idea!" said I. "There's the Lotos—the first New York club I was ever a member of—my very earliest love in that line. I have been a member of it for considerably more than twenty years, yet have seldom had a chance to look in and see the boys. They turn gray and grow old while I am not watching. And my dues go on. I am going to Hartford this afternoon for a day or two, but as soon as I get back I will go to John Elderkin very privately and say: 'Remember the veteran and confer distinction upon him, for the sake of old times. Make me an honorary member and abolish the tax. If you haven't any such thing as honorary membership, all the better—create it for my honor and glory.' That would be a great thing; I will go to John Elderkin as soon as I get back from Hartford."

I took the last express that afternoon, first telegraphing Mr. F. G. Whitmore to come and see me next day. When he came he asked:

"Did you get a letter from Mr. John Elderkin, secretary of the Lotos Club, before you left New York?"

"No."

"Then it just missed you. If I had known you were coming I would have kept it. It is beautiful, and will make you proud. The Board of Directors, by unanimous vote, have made you a life member, and squelched those dues; and you are to be on hand and receive your distinction on the night of the 30th, which is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the club, and it will not surprise me if they have some great times there."

What put the honorary membership in my head that day in the Century Club? For I had never thought of it before. I don't know what brought the thought to me at that particular time instead of earlier, but I am well satisfied that it originated with the Board of Directors, and had been on its way to my brain through the air ever since the moment that saw their vote recorded.

Another incident. I was in Hartford two or three days as a guest of the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell. I have held the rank of Honorary Uncle to his children for a quarter of a century, and I went out with him in the trolley-car to visit one of my nieces, who is at Miss Porter's famous school in Farmington. The distance is eight or nine miles. On the way, talking, I illustrated something with an anecdote. This is the anecdote:

Two years and a half ago I and the family arrived at Milan on our way to Rome, and stopped at the Continental. After dinner I went below and took a seat in the stone-paved court, where the customary lemon trees stand in the customary tubs, and said to myself, "Now this is comfort, comfort and repose, and nobody to disturb it; I do not know anybody in Milan."

Then a young gentleman stepped up and shook hands, which damaged my theory. He said, in substance:

"You won't remember me, Mr. Clemens, but I remember you very well. I was a cadet at West Point when you and Rev. Joseph H. Twichell came there some years ago and talked to us on a Hundredth Night. I am a lieutenant in the regular army now, and my name is H______. I am in Europe, all alone, for a modest little tour; my regiment is in Arizona."

We became friendly and sociable, and in the course of the talk he told me of an adventure which had befallen him—about to this effect:

"I was at Bellagio, stopping at the big hotel there, and ten days ago I lost my letter of credit. I did not know what in the world to do. I was a stranger; I knew no one in Europe; I hadn't a penny in my pocket; I couldn't even send a telegram to London to get my lost letter replaced; my hotel bill was a week old, and the presentation of it imminent—so imminent that it could happen at any moment now. I was so frightened that my wits seemed to leave me. I tramped and tramped, back and forth, like a crazy person. If anybody approached me I hurried away, for no matter what a person looked like, I took him for the head waiter with the bill.

"I was at last in such a desperate state that I was ready to do any wild thing that promised even the shadow of help, and so this is the insane thing that I did. I saw a family lunching at a small table on the veranda, and recognized their nationality—Americans—father, mother, and several young daughters—young, tastefully dressed, and pretty—the rule with our people. I went straight there in my civilian costume, named my name, said I was a lieutenant in the army, and told my story and asked for help.

"What do you suppose the gentleman did? But you would not guess in twenty years. He took out a handful of gold coin and told me to help myself—freely. That is what he did."

The next morning the lieutenant told me his new letter of credit had arrived in the night, so we strolled to Cook's to draw money to pay back the benefactor with. We got it, and then went strolling through the great arcade. Presently he said, "Yonder they are; come and be introduced." I was introduced to the parents and the young ladies; then we separated, and I never saw him or them any m—

"Here we are at Farmington," said Twichell, interrupting.

We left the trolley-car and tramped through the mud a hundred yards or so to the school, talking about the time we and Warner walked out there years ago, and the pleasant time we had.

We had a visit with my niece in the parlor, then started for the trolley again. Outside the house we encountered a double rank of twenty or thirty of Miss Porter's young ladies arriving from a walk, and we stood aside, ostensibly to let them have room to file past, but really to look at them. Presently one of them stepped out of the rank and said:

"You don't know me, Mr. Twichell, but I know your daughter and that gives me the privilege of shaking hands with you."

Then she put out her hand to me, and said:

"And I wish to shake hands with you too, Mr. Clemens. You don't remember me, but you were introduced to me in the arcade in Milan two years and a half ago by Lieutenant H______."

What had put that story into my head after all that stretch of time? Was it just the proximity of that young girl, or was it merely an odd accident?