KATHLEEN

I cannot prove that animals have souls, but I would go so far as to say that the apparatus of a soul is there. Instinct is obviously not soul, and, moreover, is based on hereditary earth-fears and earth desires. With death, instinct dies like any other quality—like the power of smell or the colour of the fur. Reasons given to prove that animals have no souls are that they cannot laugh or they cannot pray, or they do not leave behind those wisps or waifs of floating personality which we call ghosts. Only beings with souls to lose or save have the faculty of impregnating place and time with those unsolved emanations, which we attribute to some great emotional violence or grief or crime, when we say that such and such a house is haunted. But then, if the material of a house can be haunted—that is, possessed by spirits, good or evil, of the past—why should it not be possible for an animal to become possessed and, being sentient and animate, to reproduce such effects as that same spirit would have on a human body?

But of themselves animals have no souls. Otherwise, one might sadly imagine what a multitude of ghosts would haunt the human race. Would not the old coach roads be infested with phantom horses once worn slowly to death in order to keep the system of mails and stages, before the era of railways, up to time? Would not numberless donkeys haunt the sea sands? And all the cats and dogs left to starve in deserted houses should provide the spectral shapes of their anguish and despair, all manner of feline phantoms and canine come-backs. But, however inhumanly an animal dies, it is just because it is not human that it leaves no avenging or haunting emanation on time’s spectroscope.

But an animal is susceptible of lodging a soul or spirit escaped from some other source. Holy Writ and Mediæval Sorcery combine to reassure us on that point. The driving of the evil spirits out of their human host into the Gadarene swine was the greatest experiment in Psychical Research since the seance of Endor, when the witch raised Samuel from the dead with the deliberate dare-devilry of a Kensington Pythoness. The Gadarene swine showed that the bodies of animals could be properly possessed by spirits, and of course the necromantic Middle Ages broidered every single Gospel fact to the full, and recorded every kind of fantastic variant such as familiar spirits occupying owls and men’s souls entering into wolves; all the horrible legend of lycanthropy, to give it its right name. The accepted fact that spirits could so easily make themselves at home in an animal’s body led the theologians to the theological deduction that an animal could not possibly have had a soul. It was empty, in fact. A human body, of course, is not easily occupied by spirits unless the person has been foolish enough to get out of his body and lose the way back. However, that is another story.

To return to Psychical Research and the animal world, nothing is better attested than the perception of the unseen to which the primitive instinct of a dog is liable. Our eyes are often too scaled or civilised to see what is happening in our own drawing-rooms. Dogs sometimes follow with their eyes some passing apparition which is held from their owner’s sight. And they rise and shiver in that numbing ice-breath, which is so common a concomitant of that which comes from the unseen. I have known of caged birds dying, well, it was said of a cold draught, but really of sheer terror....

Of leaving ghosts themselves animals have no specific record though they frequently figure in ghost stories. But the survivals and superannuations of human personality do return under animal form. There was the case of a Scotch recluse, who had a morbid little way about him, and was always upsetting his prosaic family by threatening to return to them in the body of one of his many pet sporting dogs. He was so insistent on this subject that the moment he died his family had all his dogs destroyed, but he came back all the same and rather unpleasantly, for visitors used to complain of the whining and scratching of a dog at their door during the night. Horses have certainly been known to make their distress known to their owners by telepathic means, whether they have thrown a foal untimely or stumbled into wire in the dark.

An old school friend of mine, Edward (and the family name I leave out) was convinced that a woman’s spirit dwelt in his favourite mare, but the circumstances he would never allow to be studied scientifically or published in any way. As he has long left the country, and as I think that I alone saw the story from start to finish (and can now evolve some theory) I will tell it as well as I can, always making the reservation that it is an unpleasant story in the extreme. However, with the necessary changes in names and places it can do no harm to present it to the morbid.

We were all at school together, Edward, Lord Petersfield (that was not his name) and myself, and Eton will make a very good disguise for the name of the Public School. Edward and Petersfield were prominent in athletics from the first, though Petersfield was always ahead. He was a bullnecked fellow with a face and nose of the type the Americans feelingly describe as “plug-ugly.” He had no brain, and being a peer’s son would never have been expected to use it if he had one, but he had tremendous grit and determination to collect all that he wanted in the shape of silver cups and coloured caps—in glorification of his bodily prowess. On the whole they prove delusive trophies to English youth, choking off higher ambitions and satisfying young men with a physical fitness which cannot last. Petersfield was really supreme of this type, brave, unscrupulous, thick-skinned and self-centred. He was the finest kick at football in the school or any school. I can still see the ball darting more than bouncing from his toe like a billiard ball from the cue, or describing long parabolas across the playing field like one of those drawings which illustrate the curve and velocity of cannon balls. And his pride and self-conceit! Well, it was our fault, for we worshipped as much as we disliked him. I think we feared him as well. He had such a relentless way of hurling others out of his path. He insisted on being first choice always. He had to be captain. He had to be winner. He had to be the record maker. Being second was poisonous to him. He could not stand being honourably beaten. He was a fine winner but a bad loser.

It was the same in later life. He was a fine billiard player, but, being once defeated in a passing game at the club, he put down his cue and never played again. Defeat, however honourable, was the only thing that appeared to hurt him. To the racket and bruises of an athletic career he was impervious. Besides, he gave as good as he took. His curiously ugly face was attributed to a streak of foreign blood. Certainly he had a full-blooded Oriental grandmother. Boys of foreign descent more often showed a taste at school for pretty clothes and expensive sweets. It was odd in those days to see one, captain of an English school Eleven charging and barging, and swearing like any muscular Christian. Of course there was plenty of English blood on his father’s side, and it was only while he was a small youth that he was chaffed about the colour of his Asiatic relations with that considerate tact which the English schoolboy has made his own. He soon could look after himself, and played cricket as well as football for the school. The mixture of blood made him strong as a mongrel and his endless conceit made him courageous. He was steeled, not unnerved, by the presence of a large crowd, and could be depended upon to make runs on a bad pitch. But he was always disliked.

Between Petersfield and Edward there had been a feud as fags when they first came to school, and it had always rankled. As soon as Petersfield found his level he had tried to bully Edward, and I remember the day when Edward decided to stand him no longer. He found himself cornered in another boy’s room, and seeing Petersfield descending upon him he snatched a knife from the table, and thrust it with a boy’s frenzy into his enemy. There was a lot of blood and a serious row. Luckily Petersfield was tough and no artery was severed. The parents of both boys were summoned by the Headmaster, and it was wisely decided to hush everything up. For the rest of their school life they were often athletic rivals, but they managed to keep out of each other’s way. They both reached the Eleven eventually, and whatever ill-humour remained was discharged on the football field. Petersfield left all his contemporaries behind, and was regarded as the best kick the school had ever produced, which set his selfishness and self-conceit running into a settled mould.

The privileges and good things of the English aristocratic life were abundantly his. The combination of wealth from abroad, title from home, and athletic prowess at school opened every club and country house to Petersfield. He went wherever he wished, and nine mothers out of ten encouraged their daughters to follow and flatter him without thinking whether he was likely to make an ideal husband, or perhaps because English mothers seem to believe that the ideal husband is the third stage of the idolised schoolboy who has become an idle bachelor.

Petersfield and Edward used to meet again in after life during the hunting season. In face of the solemn realities connected with the pursuit of foxes they could well afford to forget their disagreements at school. Edward used to hunt regularly, for in those days hunting was not out of the reach and pocket of those English country families for whom the sport had been divinely designed. The time had not yet come for the sport to become the monied luxury of townsmen rather than the occupation of squires, when men of wealth would command the hunts their fortunes supported, and when their lack of horsemanship and speed in the field would be met by a supply of well-aniseeded foxes and even three-padded Reynards, amputated for the benefit of sporting stalwarts who had paid to be in at the death. The King of Sports would have to be brought within range of the Kings of Commerce and Stock-broking. In the greater days of fox-hunting, Petersfield and Edward both rode in the first flight. Hunting was a serious matter in Leicestershire then, and it was a joy to behold how the hard-riding squires and gentlemen jockeys kept the after-Christmas crowd at a polite distance by forcing a tempestuous pace over the oxers and leaving the colliding Cockneys to drift into the distance. On such occasions there arose a closer understanding between Edward and Petersfield. They were both well mounted, and had no quarrel in the open. Indeed, by this time they must have forgotten the old rivalry at school. But it had left an impression on my mind, and, remembering how Petersfield had been able to snatch prize after prize in front of Edward’s nose, I would have been well satisfied to see him forfeit one of the more substantial gains in life to my friend.

There came a splendid season with record runs interspersed through the finest of hunting weather. The Leicestershire colonies settled down to their Elysian fields with no cloud on the horizon except the prospect of having to find a new Master for one of the best-known packs. Fortunately neither Petersfield nor Edward had any ambition that way, otherwise I would have been really grieved had Petersfield snatched the Mastership to himself. For any such public and honourable post I considered that Edward had far higher qualifications. His temper was more even, and he often thought of others besides himself.

When the time came for the renewal of their rivalry I noticed with interest and relief that it was over a woman that they were stirred, first vaguely and hesitatingly, and at last very relentlessly. Nevertheless the fair sex lead to far less unpleasantness in England than what are called sporting disputes. An Englishman who is kept out of some great sporting position or done out of his place in a team of eleven will harbour vendetta all his life. But for a jilting fiancée or a forsaking wife he will find a kind of bored consolation elsewhere. The arrows of love are fortunately blunted by the northern climate.

England is a man’s country not a woman’s. Affairs of honour, if they arise, rise in the realm of sport, not of gallantry. Cheating at cards, accusations of foul play, even labelling a man a dangerous shot, will set men fiercely apart, and will blind accuser and accused to the consequences. But as a rule men do not fight duels over women or lose their heads merely because they have lost their hearts. There are always as many mermaids in the sea as ever emerged from its waves. It was unfortunate and unnecessary, therefore, that Petersfield and Edward should have discovered that the one and only girl for them resided in the same person. Trouble stared them in the face the moment Kathleen FitzClare arrived to stay at the same hunting lodge where they were guests. But her charms are no part of my story or at least any detailed description of them. Their effect certainly is. They seemed to affect Petersfield and Edward both with the same deadly fascination, for they both began to court her in the intervals of pursuing the fox. I was thrown constantly with all three, and found myself something of a neutral pacemaker for Edward, with an inclination to ride off Petersfield if I could. But the game was so obviously one where the third man cannot interfere. The contest was as keen as could be expected among men whose first thoughts lay with hunting all the time. The game went to Petersfield.

Though I think on a desert island or on a social level Kathleen would have chosen Edward for the amiabilities which the other never had, Petersfield could urge a number of qualities in his cause, which counted high in the England of those days. A prospective Peerage still argued nobility and probably gentle blood. His wealth was based on land reinforced by a fortune abroad. He was unpopular, but his position was strong, and he could stroll into Parliament or a first-rate club, or most country houses, with very little preliminaries.

He was still pushing for prizes and generally picking them up whether he had to make an exertion or not. Perhaps he won them too easily, for he never had to give that concentration of purpose and pain by which alone the greatest trophies are won. He had distanced us all at school without taking the trouble to train himself, and in later life it was the same. Of him it was said that he could have played cricket for England and won the Grand National. He had the calibre for both but not the self-denial. He took his sport for his personal pride and pleasure and not for its own reward. It was his pleasure to keep his strong body magnificently fit, but he had no use for asceticism or reducing his weight or the toils of first class cricket and steeplechasing. And his pride was sufficiently served by the ease with which he could hold his own among the amateurs of his time. Nor was he the sort to love a woman with the bloodless devotion of a Harry Esmond. When he saw an easy and pleasurable chance to make love he took it. Edward became deeply in love with Kathleen, but Petersfield forced the pace and in the end he took her away. The day came when Edward realised that it was all up. We were coming up the stairs when we caught sight of Petersfield and Kathleen on the higher landing together. He was leaning backward and she seemed almost to be dragged forward by the eddy of his lips. I swore softly, but Edward turned a little pale and said nothing. Petersfield looked rather like one of those Satyrs that are so often depicted on classical altars. Well it made me hot and Edward cold, poor fellow! I do not suppose Petersfield was ever particularly passionate, but as she turned round I could see the glint of his teeth as he drew his mouth across her shoulders.... Their engagement was announced soon after.... At the wedding a curious incident happened. Edward crept into the church at the last moment, and, as luck would have it, ran into the bride. Without a word but with a face like marble she broke her wedding bouquet and handed one half to Edward. Nobody but myself saw the incident.

Edward seemed quite crushed for a long time after she married Petersfield, but his early training had prepared him for being knocked out from the same quarter. He never mentioned it to me then or afterwards. As for Kathleen—for all that the world knew, it was a happy marriage. Her relatives were wildly pleased and marriages are made to please relatives. She kept her end up and always showed herself well groomed and proud when she appeared in public, and perky and pleasant in the private houses she visited. Her behaviour showed the normal attitude with which women equally conceal the most fantastic tragedies or some secret happiness. You never can know by their conduct whether women have cancer or a lover. The same intangible veil conceals the most terrible secrets within. A man will make a hullabulloo over either, and tell all his friends in the Club sooner or later. Men are fools. Women will talk about everything that concerns the secrets of others, but their own they keep more often than people know. Kathleen kept hers and no one was a penny the wiser. But the marriage did not last. Neither women nor horses ever lasted Petersfield long. He was always passing restlessly on his way to try another. But there was no scandal or divorce in Kathleen’s case. In fact nobody thought anything was amiss until she was found dead one morning, and the Coroner stated at somewhat embarrassing length his reasons for supposing that she had taken an overdose of sleeping draught accidentally!

She had been out hunting the day before, and Edward told me that he had had a long talk with her. They had always remained close friends and met more and more gladly. This occasion had been Edward’s last memory of her, and they had met at the covertside and ridden into a corner field together. She had talked to Edward with more than her usual gay manner, with a real tenderness in fact, as though she were going for a far journey and they were not likely to meet again that season and for longer. She had shewn herself more interested in Edward than in the hounds, and had insisted on his wheeling his horse round and round behind the covert. He could not remember that she had told him anything important, certainly nothing to illuminate the dark tragedy of the morning after, but her manner had impressed him deeply. She seemed to be prescient of a coming disaster and unwilling for him to leave her side. She had kept him there, he could not tell whether it was ten minutes or an hour, but the hunt had meantime disappeared. Then with a handshake and allowing him to kiss her hand she had ridden home leaving him an imperishable souvenir. Of course he never saw her again, but, what was so curious, he could not recall a word that she had said. He was fortunately able to keep the incident from the Coroner whose interpretation would almost certainly have been wrong.

Edward felt her death terribly and took a good deal of the widower’s pose and portion upon himself. Petersfield continued hunting that season as though nothing had happened, but Edward grew moody and disappeared. He was always imaginative, and imaginative people, instead of being bored, brood and brood, and so a year passed. Petersfield married again without much ado, but Edward did not think it was any slight to Kathleen’s memory. Rather he came to think that, now her husband had remarried, she was more than ever his own, and the feud between the two men collapsed into its own ashes.

After a break of two seasons Edward was hunting again. Petersfield was now Master of the pack, but nothing could ever induce the least collision between the two. Edward’s ambitions and desires had been steadily blunted through life. He had taken an honourable second so often. There seemed nothing left for him but to enjoy good health and a place in the ranks of sport. When they met in the field, he and Petersfield exchanged cheery greeting. It was a good season and they had plenty of hunting matters to discuss. They were having rattling runs and the Hunt made lively reading in the rather monotonous chronicle of foxhunting which spoils a daily column of The Times for the ordinary reader. Edward distinguished himself riding a young mare which his father had bred, a nice black satin-coated creature that made up for her slender shoulders by the cat-like cleverness with which she took double fences and complicated obstacles. She became a familiar beauty spot in the Hunt, and more than one generous offer was made for her, but Edward enjoyed her mixture of cunning and staying power which generally brought him to the front and sometimes gave him a hard run to himself and the huntsmen. With all that money could buy him in horseflesh, Petersfield could never appear on a mount like Edward’s. One day, returning from the day’s sport, Edward told me with a quiet bitterness that the bad blood was beginning to mount once again between himself and Petersfield. I asked what in Heaven’s name it could be for? “Over the mare of course. Petersfield cannot bear being passed when the pace really begins to tell and I pass him every time. He has offered me a record price for her.”

“You refused him, I hope,” I said. “I don’t see why he should have everything in life.”

Edward nodded in a queer sort of way as though it was no good. I was with him the next day when Petersfield swaggered up and congratulated Edward on his riding during the week. “You won’t let me double my offer of yesterday?” he laughed. Edward sat still. Petersfield continued: “You know. What’s the name of the mare that you ride?” Edward looked him fair in the face and said “Kathleen!”

It was the first and only time I saw Petersfield taken aback. He rode back to his hounds without saying another word. Then Edward told me why he had called her by the name of the dead woman he had loved. It was only a whim brought on by an accident.

“The first time I rode her to hounds,” he began, “she stopped dead in the corner of a field and would not move away. She whinnied and pawed the ground not out of fear but as though to attract my attention. It was no use trying to push, much less to punish such a willing goer, so I dismounted and tried to find out what was worrying her. I got off and looked round. Then I recognised the spot. It was the corner where I had said good-bye to Kathleen three years previously. It all came back to me then, and most curiously I immediately remembered for the first time what Kathleen had been speaking to me on that strange and ever-regretted afternoon. It was about old friends being best and how pleasant it was to come back to them in after years, and would I always allow her to feel like that toward me. That was about all. And the scene dug up the old impressions in my memory so fresh that I lay my head across the mare and fairly shook with grief. I thought she understood almost, and when I mounted her again she trotted off and we joined the hunt. She galloped like mad and I forgot her shying in the first field after the exhilaration of that run. She just showed her heels to the whole field. Though we often passed that field again, she never stopped or repeated her action. But what had happened linked her up in my mind with Kathleen and that is why I called her by the same name.” So said Edward.

I saw a good deal of him that season and admired the perfect partnership established between him and his mare. It was more like telepathy than horsemanship. He told me that the mare could read his thoughts before he passed them to her mouth or to his heels. She never tired in the field and he was only afraid she would some day strain herself. He had entered into the relations that an Arab bears to his horse. They became inseparable companions. Not only in the field, but in the stable; and out of the hunting season, Edward made the mare the pet of his life. She moved, galloped and jumped under him with something of the spirit-like obedience that a medium gives to a strong control. I don’t think it was out of simple sentiment or in mockery of the might-have-been that he called her Kathleen. I had to realise that he really believed that Kathleen, the dead Kathleen, had found a way of coming back to him out of the next world. I thought he might have saved himself his emotions when he uttered her name in reply to Petersfield, who, unless he was more thick-skinned than we thought, must have seen how deep the old sorrow lay. Anyhow, Edward had taken the idea into his cranium and as it gave him great consolation it must be regarded as a good idea. It seemed fantastic enough that Kathleen, having presumably regretted her marriage in the next world as well as in this, should have found this rather round-about way of redeeming her frustrated love for poor Edward. He, just like a man, was convinced that she had loved him even when she chose the other man. He was convinced that he had not lost her after all and suffered none of that imaginative agony in which lovers think of the dear unattainable dead as annihilated in space or crying a ghostly grief in the icy void. Edward was spared all that, and a good gallop on the mare ridded him of loneliness and depression of any kind. In the end he would never let anyone but himself ride her, and after every ride he rubbed her down, and fed and watered her. She appreciated his care and carried him and kept him in the first flight all the season. They were a real ornament to the Hunt.

The bad times came to the old gentry and the squires. New taxes and old mortgages hit them harder and harder and numbers fell out of the County ranks, selling their Halls and Manors to financial looters and legalised plunderers. The character of hunting began to alter. Extraordinary people came a-hunting, packs changed hands and the money-interest could always be felt, even in the necessity that arose for artificially slowing the speed of the foxes. Huntsmen were required to show kills rather than sport. The bad times hit Edward’s father rather heavily and he had been unlucky in trying to recoup his lost income in the Argentine. The family in consequence suffered not merely decay but swift and total disaster. Unsuspected debts rose to the surface and everything saleable had to be sold. Books followed furniture, and finally went the horses. Edward’s father had a certain call on the mare he had reared, and Kathleen had to be sold with the rest. If it had not been for his father’s distress, I think Edward would have preferred to shoot her there and then. But there was no way of getting her out of the storm that was engulfing the fortunes of the house, and she was expected to make the sale a success. She would attract buyers who might likely buy the other horses.

Edward avoided Tattersalls the day of the sale. I went to watch the bidding. The mare was well known in the world of horse-buyers and there was a keen tussle between different hunts to purchase her. A dealer bought her for four hundred guineas, a very fine price. Edward went abroad after the sale to live in the Colonies, where bankrupt men may live free and ride a horse. I saw him no more.

I spent that winter hunting, varied with excursions to races, steeplechasing for choice. Amateur riding is always more amusing if not such an exact science as professional work. Towards spring I attended some point to point racing in the Midlands. There was a small crowd at either end, and I took up a position in the middle of the course beside the most formidable fence. Several of my friends were riding and Petersfield was a strong favourite. Petersfield had never chequered my life, but I confess I would rather have seen him second than have won a good sum on his win. With my glasses I recognised him at the start. I watched the starter and the anxious drop of his flag and the solid burst of horses and riders opening like a fan and thinning out as each obstacle brought one of them down. The race became a string with Petersfield leading. He was riding beautifully and his mount was tossing away the sods like a runaway ploughing machine. They splashed through a water obstacle. The race seemed to me Petersfield’s, as I watched him shoot past and over the fence at which I was standing. He threw his mount like a cricket ball at the next fence, when suddenly the horse doubled itself up and stopped dead. Petersfield slipped over its head, landed on his feet and made a desperate effort to remount. The horse’s front legs danced in the air. Petersfield jerked down the sinewy snakehead and bundling the reins into his hand was scrambling back into the saddle. He had lost the lead but it was exciting to see if he could still win. There was a chance. No, there wasn’t! He was ready again, but the survivors were two fences away. Not till then did he seat himself squarely and face the jump, but not a step would his horse take. So far from pricking his mount to the frenzy of the wind, his spurs seemed only to transfix it to stone. The race was being won at the other end. It was won! And Petersfield threw himself angrily out of the saddle. It must have been maddening to him.

He seemed rather puzzled by what had happened. He walked round to the horse’s head with an ugly look. If he wanted to punish the animal he had the brute to himself for they were half hidden behind the fence.... I turned towards the finish and had started walking away when I heard a quick, half-human squeal. I turned round again and realised to my horror that it was not the horse but Petersfield who was squealing and for an obvious reason. The animal had its mouth more than full with Petersfield’s bull neck. He was down on the grass and she was holding him there. I ran as hard as I could, hurling my stick at the horse’s sides. But I could not dislodge the animal until I had snatched and dragged the reins. With a sickening thrill I saw the heavy mouth move across his neck and the big row of foaming teeth.... Good Heavens! He had been shaken like a rat before I had rescued him. Not till then did I recognise Edward’s famous mare. Her eyes were red-hot, and her ears were laid back like a hare’s crouching in her form. It was the mare called Kathleen all right!

I never let Edward know and indeed I never met him again. Why should I? Men return from the undiscovered ends of the world and from foreign countries but not from the Colonies. The Colonies are the Empire’s blotting paper. They absorb all the superfluous ink and the mistakes and the blots. Financial undoing is the most considerable of social mistakes, and Edward was glad to be absorbed by the dreary dazzle of Australia. I never saw him again. Whether the news of Petersfield’s death ever reached him I do not know. I have no doubt he would have laid a different interpretation to the scene at the fence than I did, had he seen or known. I managed to account for it to my own mind. I don’t think anything so absurd as that Kathleen, the dead woman, came back to avenge an unlucky marriage, or to be near to Edward.... It was all a matter of the power of thought. Thought when harnessed to emotion is a soluble output which can penetrate and influence material or living bodies, not necessarily human. In concentrated form the emanations of the past often strike us as ghosts and we generally feel them more often than we see them. If such an emanation hits a receiving or containing agent, there is no limit to the tricks it can play, duping the brain, catching the eye, even causing audibility. In this case I think Kathleen had decided to kill herself, and all her personality went out to Edward the day before, when she made that queer and lingering farewell. Edward did not catch the tragedy or meaning of it, but the emotion intended for him had saturated the spot I believe. He was more receptive a year later when he came riding to the same place, but even so the fierce thought and unconscious exhalation of Kathleen’s dead agony pervading that corner of earth where they had parted found its receiver in the sensitive mare he was riding. Something of her no doubt survived bodily annihilation, and that shred of unliving, earth-bound personality as it were impregnated the primitive instinct of the mare, so that she came to answer Edward’s craving for Kathleen’s return to him in any guise or in any shape. The negative and positive poles were established between man and mare and no wonder he felt the horrible material reaction of having to sell her.... But I don’t for a moment think it was Kathleen. I only suppose that the mare somehow became mixed up with Edward’s own feelings and sensation, which would account for the unpleasantness of that scene that I witnessed by the fence.... It was really only the memory of those teeth that gave me such a queer turn.