Page 11 - Edgar Cayce - The Sleeping Prophet
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considerable distance, Cayce agreed. He fell into a trance, and when he awakened the man .had 

already left, with an armful of notes. That night, Cayce tossed and turned, unable to sleep. His head 

ached horribly. Later, that week, the explanation materialized. The real estate operator, taking 

advantage of Cayce's unconsciousness, had picked his subconscious mind. On in formation from the 

unsuspecting Cayce, he gleefully confided to friends, he had cleaned up twenty thousand dollars on 

the market in one quick coup.

After another demonstration, in which experimenting doctors thrust needles in him to test whether he 

was actually in trance, Cayce decided he would never give another reading, without somebody present 

whom he could implicitly trust That person was his wife, Gertrude, who supervised thousands of 

readings thereafter.

With all his vaunted powers, Cayce was a humble man, religious, God-fearing, who read the Bible 

every day of his life. He would see anybody, at any time, if left to his own devices, though it was a 

strain to do more than two readings a day. He was twice arrested, once for practicing medicine 

without a license, another time for fortune-telling. Yet, he never gave a health reading, without an 

express request, nor did he turn anybody away because they couldn't pay. When he was most

hard-pressed pressed for money, during the Depression, with unpaid bills piling up, his sponsoring 

group, the Cayce Foundation, felt that clients who could afford it were chiseling in not contributing to 

the A. R. E. treasury, a usual requirement for a reading. This contribution was normally twenty 

dollars. So a beleaguered finance committee, wishing to cut off the chiselers put a leading question to 

the sleeping Cayce: "To those who cannot pay, free help shall be given. To those who may well afford 

to pay and refuse to donate anything, either in services or money, shall further aid be denied? In this 

policy shall we be following the correct path?"

The answer must have been rather a disappointment to his chancellors of the vanishing exchequer, but 

it was typical of Cayce: "The rain falls on the just and unjust alike. Do not make such [denial to 

anyone, for any reason] an ironclad rule."

Awake or sleeping, Cayce was no ordinary man. He had a way of putting people at their ease 

immediately, and strangers, otherwise shy and retiring, would walk up to this slim, stoop-shouldered 

man, with the kindly gaze, and shake his hand. Frequently, they would talk to him across his desk, 

discussing the most ultimate problems, or they would write from every corner of the globe, and he 

would always write back, in a precise hand, which showed a clarity of thought, even when the spelling 

wasn't He had a lively humor, enjoying a joke on himself. "Would you like to talk things over?" he 

once asked a woman visitor. "Yes," she answered, "but I want to hear what you say when asleep, Mr. 

Cayce, not when you're awake."

The shyest children approached him, and Cayce thought nothing of their friendliest overtures. It could 

very well be, he told himself with a smile, that he had known them before. One day, for instance, as 

he dropped into a Virginia Beach barber shop, a small boy casually climbed onto his lap. The father 

looked up from his haircut "You mustn't bother that man," he said. "He isn't anybody you know."

The boy's arm tightened around Cayce's neck. "But I do know him," he said. "We were hungry

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