indeed, the strength of all of us combined would have been barely enough for such a heavy task.  Of course, every one else but myself and friend supposed that the “spirits” had kindly done this miracle to please us; but I unfortunately said “Oh!  Mrs. Hall! it will crush your chandelier!” (one of Venice glass, very precious)—­at which unbelieving remark, probably, the spirits took umbrage, for at once the table ceased ascending, and with a slow oscillation descended very gently on to the carpet.  This sort of petty miracle is a frequent experience among the spiritualists, and how it is effected I cannot imagine.  There could be no contrivance or machinery in our host’s drawing-room, as must be the case imitatively at the Egyptian Hall; none of the company could be conspiring to deceive, and more than all, that huge, heavy table rising up against the law of gravitation was enough to chase away all incredulity.  One fact is stronger than fifty theories; and one reliable success overweighs a thousand failures.  I testify to that which I have seen.

But more, and more wondrous, was to follow.  All at once Mr. Home flung himself back in his chair, looking wild and white; and then rising slowly and solemnly, went to the still bright fire, into which he thrust his unprotected hands, and taking out a double handful of live coals, placed them—­as a fire offering—­upon Mr. Hall’s snow-white head, combing the hair over them with his fingers, all which our host appeared to receive more than patiently—­religiously.  Thereafter Mr. Home placed them in the Countess’s blonde-lace cap, and carried them, as a favour vouchsafed by the spirits, to each of us, to hold in our hands.  When he came to me, Mr. Hall said:  “My friend, have faith.”  “Yes,” I answered, “and courage, too;” whereupon I was blest with a good handful of those wonderful coals, still hot enough to burn any skin; but, somehow or other, I felt no pain and had no mark.  Here was another law of nature put to shame, in the miraculous fact that fire was seemingly deprived of the power of burning.  How this could be, I cannot guess; but I record manfully the fact as witnessed.  After this, an accordion held under the table by Mr. Home with one hand, the other being upon the table, positively played a tune of itself—­“Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon”—­requested by Dr. Chambers, “that being the tune his dead child loved so.”  I was requested to look under the table to see the “spirit-hand” operating near the carpet; but I saw nothing except the vitalised accordion expanding and contracting of itself, being held tightly at the upper handle by Mr. Home.  Some of the company, however, claimed to see and to shake hands with the child, and Mr. Home requested me to ask for a similar favour by placing my hand open under the table; this, accordingly, I ventured to do, with the result of feeling my thumb sensibly touched and thrilled, which I was told was a good sign of favour from the spirits—­albeit in my own mind I remembered what our omniscient Shakespeare sings at the mouth of one of the Macbeth witches,