Although my practical acquaintance with spiritualism ceased several years ago (at the close of a period of ardent investigation), my interest was suddenly galvanised into fresh life by the news that not far from the house where I was visiting there was situated a summer encampment of spiritualists nearly five hundred strong. Five hundred spiritualists living quietly among themselves, beyond all reach of chilling doubt and scepticism, was a temptation with a special charm; and there was no great difficulty in persuading my hostess that a visit would be interesting. We accordingly organised a party of four, and started behind a pair of long-tailed horses for a drive of ten miles up into the gentle, wooded hills that at this point render the coast of the State of Connecticut peculiarly attractive. It was somewhat of a surprise to find five hundred spiritualists occupying a fortified position in this most rigid of New England States. Numerous as they are all over the United States, especially in California and along the slopes of the Pacific Coast, we hardly expected that the puritan spirit of New England would afford them sufficient favour and nourishment to encourage a settlement of this description. In our ignorance, therefore, it was something of a shock to learn from our driver that “Them spritilists are all over this part of the country, thick as p’tater-bugs.” To us, who knew that Connecticut suffered severely from the ravages of the Colorado beetle (vulgarly known as the potato-bug) this information came with some degree of picturesque force. “They’ve a powerful followin’ around here,” the man went on, “but I don’t take any stock in ’em.” “From what class do they draw their supporters?” “Hard to say; unejicated folk mostly, I guess.” “Farmers?” “No, not farmers at all,” he replied with vigour. “People from the small towns and villages; people that’s curious to know what kind of a place they’ll drop into later.” “They have no great attraction for you?” “None! They don’t tell you nothin’ worth knowin’, to begin with. Oh, but they’re plenty round here, more than you can shake a stick at; and they’re a good sort mostly, pays their bills and doesn’t drink. But they don’t pheaze me any!” The scorn of the driver, who himself came from a vigorous farming stock up country, was very instructive. It was a sunny September afternoon. Some miles away on our right the town of New London stretched itself prettily along the banks of the Thames, a Thames that could swallow its namesake half a dozen times and show no appreciable rise. Behind us lay the blue line of the sea, dotted with shining white sails; and on our left the woods flowed away in graceful undulations that already hung aloft the crimson and golden banners of their flaming autumn dress. Presently the woods fell sharply away and a dark grove of pines came into view in a little valley below us. It was a secluded spot, protected on two sides by a loop of the river and on a third by the shoulder of the hills. Perfectly still and quiet, it lay literally in a fold of the river and the hills. Occasional threads of thin blue smoke, rising here and there over the dark pine-crests, alone betrayed the existence of busy human beings. The first impression of the camp was a somewhat gloomy one, due partly no doubt to its sombre surrounding of dark evergreens and to the overshadowing presence of the hill which hid the setting of the sun. The gorgeous colouring of the surrounding maple woods further served to throw into contrast the subdued tints of the picture. Nevertheless, this sudden aspect of the camp, as we afterwards remembered, gave to us its true note⁠—peace, remoteness from the world, an unearthly stillness, and, at the same time, a curious suggestion of sleepiness, heaviness, dullness that somehow seemed also to include the idea of stagnation. The air, hovering above the still pines, seemed denser than the surrounding atmosphere and shone with a lesser brilliance in the glory of the afternoon sun. The first appearance of the place was, on the whole, depressing. This impression floated up to us on the heights and in the sunshine, but as we descended into the little valley and entered within the shadow of the grove itself and saw the numerous wooden cottages under the trees, it seemed momentarily dispelled, though it returned afterwards with gathered force and renewed conviction. A feeling that perhaps we were intruding upon scenes not intended for us, and that our unsolicited visit might not be welcome was considerably weakened when the driver tied his horses up to a pine tree and observed, with energy: “They’ll be out in a swarm to see you, and glad too, when they know you’re here.