Hi and welcome back to Nighty Night, bedtime stories to keep you awake. I'm your host Raviachadri and in this week's story we encounter

true justice from beyond the grave. The trial for Murder, aka to be taken with a grain of salt by Charles Dickens. I have always noticed a prevalent want of courage even among persons of superior intelligence and culture as to imparting their own psychological

experiences when those have been of a strange sort.

Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such wise would find no parallel or response

in a listener's internal life and might be suspected or laughed at.

A truthful traveler who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a sea

serpent would have no fear of mentioning it.

But the same traveler having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vaguary of thought, vision, so-called, dream or other remarkable mental impression

would hesitate considerably before he would own to it.

To this reticence, I attribute much of the obscurity in which such subjects are involved.

We do not habitually communicate our experiences of these subjective things,

as we do our experiences of objective creation.

The consequence is that the general stock of experience in this regard appears exceptional

and really is so, in respect of being miserably imperfect.

In what I am going to relate, I have no intention of setting up, opposing, or supporting

any theory whatever.

I know the history of the bookseller of Berlin.

I have studied the case of the wife of the late astronomer Royal as related by Sir David

Brewster and I have followed the minutest details of a much

more remarkable case of spectral illusion occurring within my private circle of friends.

It may be necessary to state as to this last that the sufferer, a lady, was in no degree, however distant, related to me.

A mistaken assumption on that head might suggest an explanation of a part of my own case, but only a part which would be wholly without foundation.

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