The Year is Almost Over

The Skeptic

"The feeling seemed to increase as I became more awake - some primal instinct warning of the presence of something predatory, something angry."

Three days after my arrival in Zurich, the concierge of my hotel told me of a philosophical debate that was to be held in the hotel's convention hall the following evening, and that the speakers would be debating in English. The debate concerned the nature of belief and the unexplained - a rather vague description, no doubt designed to generate curiosity. I had more than enough time to do all that I wished to do in Zurich, so I decided to watch.

The event was well attended. Many of them seemed a little odd - perhaps unsurprising given the nature of the topic. On one side of the moderator sat Doctor Cornelius Philpot, a professor of parapsychology and lay preacher. He was rather short, extremely rotund, and sported grey side whiskers that reached out from each side of his face like the wings of a flustered bird. As he spoke, the fingers of his hands were constantly pointing at each other, and trembling in response to his words. His eyes were spread far apart, and seemed to roll about independently - if he had a glass eye, it was impossible to tell which one, and I was glad I didn't have to talk to him face to face. From time to time he would startle those sitting in the front row by suddenly surrendering to a series of sneezes that sounded like pistol shots. Then he would produce a large paisley kerchief, wrench his nose with it, stuff it back in his pocket, blink and look about to reclaim his composure.

His opponent was thin, well over six feet, and dressed in a black suit with an old-fashioned but well tailored black frock coat. His head was completely shaven, but he had patterned scars on his cheeks in the fashion of a Soudanese tribesman - I spied a top hat resting on the chair beside the lectern, and tried to imagine how bizarre it must look when he had it on his head. He fastened his collar with some type of silver brooch, and wore small, green tinted steel-rimmed spectacles. He had an ebony walking-cane with which he would occasionally strike the floor to emphasize a point, and it was mounted at the top with some elaborate device which I could not make out from where I was sitting. He seemed to take no interest in asserting his educational qualifications, if he had any, and was introduced simply as Antoine de Loupe.

The two men shook hands, both wearing patronising, indulgent smiles. Then in a strong, extravagant manner, the moderator announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, the motion that we are to debate this evening is that... There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of the unimaginative man!"

He specified the rules, then bowed, and surrendered the floor to Doctor Philpot.

"Ladies and gentlemen," drawled the doctor, "I see before me a gathering of intelligent minds, civilised citizens of the most discerning and modern kind, and I feel confident that you will agree with the motion. Let me begin by telling you a story, my friends, relating to a legend you are no doubt familiar with, that of the ghost ship, The Flying Dutchman. Three years ago, I took passage from Southampton to Brest on a small steamer. Half way across the channel, we encountered a strange yellow cloud, which soon enveloped our ship. The air was balmy and still, so we wandered the deck to marvel at the yellow fog. Then, off the starboard bow, WE SAW IT! A large, red sailing ship, whose masts had been torn down, floating high on the yellow cloud, not three miles distant. We called to the first mate, who took his binoculars to look over the vessel. I saw his face go pale as he spotted men moving back and forth along the deck, waving madly in our direction, beseeching us to rescue them, but he did nothing more than watch. The ship sailed slowly on a parallel course to us, but then suddenly turned upside down! It continued for perhaps half an hour, and then it righted itself, and slowly sailed over the yellow horizon. The crew said nothing for the remainder of our voyage, and I, too, prayed until we made Brest. But, I was there! I wasn't told about it by somebody else! No indeed! Now, my friends, it is all too easy for a tale to grow in the telling, and so lose credibility. We all know this, and so if a story has some spectral nature to it to begin with, it is even more likely to be disbelieved. Let me tell you of two friends of mine who once stayed at an inn near the Cornish coast. It had been blowing strong winds most of the night, but just as the day was dawning, the wind died away. It was then that they heard the proclamation of Satan, outside their window. Yes, my friends, the Devil himself. I know these men, I have known them my whole life - they are brave and truthful, yet their faith was always weak. But the Devil called to them, and now they know!"